


DisEnchanted

by StarsAreMassive



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Art, Enchanted AU, F/M, Fantasy AU, Gen, Humour, M/M, Modern AU, Prince Ian, Shameless Big Bang, Tattoo Artist!Mickey, Violence, fairy tale AU, lots of swearing, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAreMassive/pseuds/StarsAreMassive
Summary: Prince Ian had never felt like he belonged in Andalasia. Then one day he finds himself plummeting through a portal into modern day New York. Mickey is a single dad who was well aware of how cruel the real world could be. He had no fuckin' time for six foot redheads running around talking about true love. But when their worlds collide, they quickly have to discover who the real monsters are.Or, the Enchanted AU that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Frank Gallagher/Ingrid Jones, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Karen jackson & Ian Gallagher, Tony Markovich/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 62
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Shameless Big Bang 2020.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to DisEnchanted. My first ever entry for the Shameless Big Bang. But first, my personal favourite part of every round - the artwork! Brought to you by the incredibly talented The Unforgivng Minute, who you can find on tumblr. Link below!

BEHOLD! The amazing art but [The Unforgivng Minute.](https://theunforgivngminute.tumblr.com/)

Go check out their tumblr at the link above. Their work is amazing. They are amazing. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in this chapter:  
> Mentions of minor violence

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom called Andalasia. It was as beautiful as a kingdom could be. Its forests were lush, and its fields were bountiful. The sky was always the perfect periwinkle blue, and the brooks babbled in the sun all day long. The people of Andalasia loved nothing more than a song or a dance, and never did a day go by when there wasn’t music in the air. You see, Andalasia was the best kingdom of them all.

It was ruled by King Frances, Queen Monica, and their six children. The eldest was Princess Fiona. She was sweet and strong, and supported her family by stepping into their sickly mother’s shoes when she got too ill to carry out her royal duties. Fiona was fiercely loved by all the kingdom and she loved every single one of her subjects, too.

Then there was Phillip - or Lip as he liked to be called. He was the cleverest of them all. By age nine, he was already smarter than all of the King’s advisors and was appointed the chief amongst them before his tenth birthday. He helped King Frances write the laws that kept the kingdom safe, played the politics with neighbouring kingdoms that kept them strong, and created the industry that kept them flourishing. Lip was always trying to find new ways to improve the lives of their people, whether it was figuring out the best way to grow more food, or how to get the cleanest water from the river. The kingdom marvelled when he invented this nifty doohickey that made carriages move without horses. If your livestock was injured, you could borrow it and go about your business as usual until they got better. Everyone fully trusted that no matter the puzzle, Prince Lip would solve it.

Prince Carl was fierce and loyal, and thought nothing of running headlong into danger to protect his family and his people. He was head of the King’s Guard, and when people laid their heads down at night, they felt safe knowing Prince Carl was defending their lands. Carl was particularly close to his sister, Princess Deborah. They teased each other and drove each other crazy, but Carl taught her how to fight and Deborah patched up her brother’s cuts from running drills and training the recruits.

Princess Deborah was known throughout the kingdom for her kindness. Whenever a new baby was born, she personally made up a gift basket for the proud new parents, and a lucky few were blessed with a personal royal visit. The youngest child, Prince Liam, was usually found with one of his sisters. He was supposed to have a nanny, but none of the royal siblings thought that a good idea at all and were perfectly happy to look after the littlest prince by themselves. Liam was sweet like Fiona, smart like Lip, brave like Carl, and kind like Debbie. Whether royal or common, Liam Gallagher was the most loved person in Andalasia.

In the middle of it all was Prince Ian. Ian was the third eldest child of King Frank and Queen Monica. He loved all of his siblings dearly and took his role as a prince of the kingdom seriously. He was strong and funny and liked nothing better than to stop in the street and strike up a conversation. The people liked to whisper that sometimes, he dressed as one of them and roamed the streets, buying drinks for folks in the taverns, sharing meals with strangers, and playing games with the children. Ian loved his family, but what he really loved was helping people. If he saw someone with a broken-down cart at the side of the road, he would jump off his horse and help them fix it or take them to wherever they needed to go. 

Prince Ian’s desire to help people was so infamous that every few weeks, during his regular ramble in the countryside, Kevin the Bandit would pop out of nowhere and cheerfully rob him. Just like today.

* * *

“Good morning, your highness!” Ian heard from the leafy canopy above. He peered through the leaves, but for someone so large, Kevin was incredibly sneaky. Word was he was a trapper once, but had fallen foul of a witch. This witch had cursed his hunting grounds to never again produce any bounty for the man. It had been the worst kind of insult when Tommy had caught four - _four_ \- braces of pheasant in the same forest and had proudly showed them off in the tavern. But his past certainly explained Kevin’s lightness of foot, his ability to blend perfectly with his surroundings, and his recurring need to rob royalty.

“Morning Kev,” Ian called up to the trees. “What’ll it be today?”

Kevin’s grinning face, handsome and lining now with age, finally emerged as he clambered down from the trees.

“Your money, your jewels, and any other riches you have on you, if you’d be so kind.”

Ian was far too jovial about the whole affair. He tossed Kevin a prepacked bag full of some awful jewellery given to him by an infatuated tutor when Ian had been inappropriately young. Lip had found out about the courtship, which Ian thought was a stupid term because he didn’t even know it was happening. But the next thing Ian knew, Kash was gone and his stern, merciless, and far smarter wife had replaced him. Ian was very fond of her now and kept trying to sneak pretty scarves and trinkets into her satchel when she wasn’t looking.

Kevin was busy rifling through the bag, impressed at the sheer weight of it but disgusted at the total lack of taste contained inside.

“So, how’s your day going?” Ian asked conversationally.

“How’s my day going?” Kevin muttered. “The kids won’t stop growing and the wife won’t stop nagging.”

Ian rolled his eyes, not buying Kevin’s put-upon act for a second. Those three women were his world. “How are the girls?” he asked.

Kev’s smile dimmed a little but didn’t disappear. People were always smiling in Andalasia, even when Ian wasn’t entirely sure they should be.

“Amy’s sick,” said Kevin. “It’s nothing too serious, the healer says. All she wants to do is cuddle with her sister, but we can only afford for one of them to be sick. So,” Kev patted the sack he’d tied to his belt. “Your timing’s kinda perfect! I have to go see the healer again today.”

Ian laughed brightly, stamping down on the thrum of concern under his skin. People didn’t get concerned in Andalasia. Everything was fine, all the time. Amy would be _fine_.

“Well, I should be getting back to the castle,” he said. “But give Amy a hug from me? I can ask Debbie if she can stop by with some broth. It always perks us up if we’re feeling under the weather.”

Kev smiled gratefully and dropped into a low bow that was only a little bit teasing. “A pleasure as always, my prince. See you in a few weeks. Stay weird.” He turned on his heel as Ian waved, and disappeared back into the woods.

Ian kicked his horse into a canter. He’d have to bring more with him next time, or send their own healer if he could figure out a way to get it passed Kev. He was a proud man, and more than a little reluctant to ask for help. The first time they’d met had been a day just like this one. Ian had been wandering wherever his feet took him as he enjoyed a rare chance to escape the palace and talk to people other than his family. He’d been admiring a particularly industrious family of starlings building their nests and gathering food. He gushed with the expectant mother and told them where they could find the softest moss, when Kev had stumbled out of a bush, brandishing a pointed stick and looking petrified.

When he’d threatened Ian, Kevin hadn’t even been able to hold his eye. He’d promised his shoes awful things if he wasn’t given everything of value Ian had on him. And in a decision that had led to an hour’s lecture on survival instincts, Ian couldn’t have stripped himself of rings or his coin purse fast enough. Not because he was afraid, but because the guy clearly needed it.

The next time Ian saw Kev, Ian had loudly announced to the pig farmer he’d been talking to that he was looking forward to walking along that overgrown path by the enchanted river, and wasn’t his dad’s old broach just lovely? And thus, Ian and Kev’s relationship was born. They weren’t friends as such, but Ian enjoyed being able to help the man who had never looked so terrible since. 

The only downside had been word getting out in that skewed way it does, to other _actual_ bandits. They started to think Ian was an easy target, because the next thing he knew he was being accosted left, right, and centre. Ian scared most of them off with a quick flash of a blade or a stamp of his horse’s hooves. But every now and then he came across a true villain and then Ian - well, something else entirely happened to pleasant, genial Prince Ian.

The first time, Ian had tried to avoid it. But the bandit had threatened his family - his sweet littlest brother and sister who _“Surely must be left unprotected sometimes, your Highness. It’s funny what can happen in the dark.”_ And the next thing Ian knew a blistering heat fired within, and he’d dropped his sword and threw himself at his attacker. Ian had straddled him on the ground, grabbed him by his gaudy shirt, and smashed his own forehead into the bandit’s nose. Blood burst everywhere and Ian had never seen anything like it before. He threw punch after punch, deaf to the man’s panicked cries, until at last he was able to get a foot under Ian’s stomach and kicked out. Ian had fallen off him spluttering and the bandit took off as fast as he could.

The haze receded and Ian stared at his bloody hands and a desperate cold overcame him. His limbs felt heavy, the frenetic energy from moments before was gone. He’d forced himself to stand and trudged step by step to an old tower nearby. His mother had taken him there as a child and together they’d explored the dusty floors for hours. Even today Ian believed his mom guided him safely back to that tower because he did not remember a step of that journey. When he’d been curled up in one of the chambers, sobbing loudly, her voice had come to him.

_“Ian, sweetie, don’t cry.”_

“I c-can’t,” he’d cried. “I hurt someone.”

_“My sweet boy. You couldn’t hurt a fly.”_

“But I did! And I meant it. I was so angry!”

_“Ian, listen to me. Me and you - we’re different. We see things differently, and this isn’t the place for us. Do you understand? Don’t feel bad for feeling something real.”_

Ian had fallen asleep after that, weirdly comforted by the warning from his mother’s spirit. But ever since, Ian had felt out of place and a little disconnected from Andalasia and the… _perfectness_ of it all. He felt it under his skin, that he didn’t belong there, that he wasn’t like everyone else and was meant for something other than the sing-song life full of dancing and Prince Charmings and true love’s kiss. But what that ‘something’ was and where he would find it, Ian didn’t have a clue.

* * *

She’d had to go through six servants to get there, but finally the new royal family portrait was hanging perfectly in the gallery. First it had been crooked, then the gilded frame was too dull, then the sun had been too close to her own painted face. But now, there it was, at the perfect height, gleaming and proud and the jewel of the collection. King Frances, Queen Ingrid, and the six princes and princesses she had adopted when she married him.

Ingrid nodded at the servants looking on anxiously. She smothered her grin but was no less satisfied to see the relief wash over them - a sure sign of how frightened they were of her. As they should be.

On the west wall there hung another portrait. She’d had to be careful with that one. As much as she’d wanted to set it on fire, it would have caused her nothing but grief. Instead, she’d made sure to display it proudly next to the newest addition. It was much the same. Everyone was in the same position, but the colours were warmer, the smiles were brighter, and there was a sparkle in each set of painted eyes. And of course, in Ingrid’s place was Queen Monica. Her golden hair shone, and everyone was angled towards her - the very heart of the Royal Family.

But then that heart had gone. King Frances and his children had gone into mourning and Ingrid had gotten to work.

Ingrid hadn’t grown up privileged. Her parents had been poor. When she had asked why she couldn’t have a new dress or a pretty bracelet they had simple laughed and petted her head and said they had everything they needed right here - and then always, _always_ , burst into a rousing song about family.

Now Ingrid didn’t mind a song or two, but she hated being poor and set her sights on a better life. What life was better than royalty? She’d taken a job as a servant in the palace shortly after the birth of the first prince, and if the odd trinket went missing, no one was any the wiser.

When Queen Monica had gotten sick, Ingrid made sure she was on the rotation for the King’s Chamber. She kept the fire warm and his wine glasses full. She gave him sympathetic smiles and a willing ear. When the Queen had gone and the children’s governess had taken suddenly and unexpectedly ill, she had been there to keep them clean and fed and to take some of the pressure off Fiona. And after a suitable amount of time, she made sure to reassure her King that it was okay to find love again, and _“The Queen would have wanted you to be happy, your majesty.”_

When King Frances had woken up with a sore head and Ingrid in bed beside him, marriage had soon followed.

And now here she was, Queen Consort of Andalasia with a family portrait to show for it. Although she wasn’t as powerful as Monica had been, King Frances wasn’t a strong man. He never quite got over the loss of his wife and left Ingrid to do as she pleased. Ingrid couldn’t have been happier. After all, no one missed a King who was already absent.

But those Gallagher children; those princes and princesses so beloved by the people of Andalasia; those entitled, snot-nosed brats who she had to keep on side to keep her place.

The Gallagher children had been as welcoming as a band of wolves when their father had announced their marriage. Fiona refused to hand over any duties. Carl and Ian mostly ignored her. Debbie never bestowed her with any of the sweet smiles she was known for. But Philip looked at her with those piercing eyes that made her feel like he could see her insides. She liked to avoid Philip whenever possible.

Ingrid’s saving grace had come with a storm. The seas had wrecked boats and stolen back the catches. The winds had broken roofs and bridges, and the rains had flooded the fields. Ingrid had walked into the throne room absent of its King to find Fiona sniffling into her hands. They didn’t speak. Fiona looked embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable state, but Ingrid had sensed an opportunity and had only given her one sharp nod before retreating.

The next morning, when Fiona had sat down to the day’s correspondence, she’d found letters of aid from their neighbouring kingdoms, offering food and builders, and anything else they needed. Only Fiona had never written a single letter. Once arched eyebrow over a newly jubilant breakfast had told her exactly who she had to thank. Since then, the family had welcomed her far more easily and let Ingrid step up and become a real Queen - or as much as she possible could. It was not a position she planned on relinquishing soon. Not now, and not after he dear husband’s time on his throne was over.

* * *

Crisp. Sweet. Tart. The right mix of sticky and flaky. Fiona had yet to fault a single of cook’s pastries as she steadily worked her way through the tray. The man himself had left her with a sigh and a pot of coffee after she’d demolished her third one. That had been several pastries ago.

She should be worrying about letting her dresses out. Except, people didn’t get fat in Andalasia. Only skinnier. They laughed it off, said that losing a few pounds were worth being able to live with a song in the air and love in their hearts. And Fiona agreed with them for the most part - she could wear what she wanted and people always complimented about how pretty she looked. But she was a princess, and lately, she’d noticed how sharp collarbones had suddenly become all the rage. They were good things. Absolutely. 

Fiona brushed the crumbs from her mouth and swallowed the last mouthful of coffee. One pasty left, and she felt sick.

The door creaked open and the curly hair and sharp eyes of her brother peered through.

“Here you are,” he said softly.

Fiona nodded, still staring at the lone pastry as Lip slipped into the kitchen and sat next to her. His arm touched hers and he looked at the crumb filled tray.

“Rations are that low, huh?” He joked feebly.

Fiona scoffed and sticky fingers combed back her hair. She stared at her brother. “Our people are starving.”

“No,” he answered. “Not yet, at least.”

“But soon.”

“Yeah.”

Fiona dropped her head to lip’s shoulder. He was her rock. Lip could solve any problem with his big brains and quick thinking. But she wasn’t sure how they were going to dig their way out of this one. Frank’s drinking couldn’t be stopped, since no one could really tell the King no. Ingrid had helped stem the flow, but even she accepted there was only so much they could do. The reality of the matter was, Frank was bankrupting the kingdom with every drink he swallowed trying to drown his memories of their mother. His spending was out of control and he neglected every single one of his duties. Carl was having to fill his seat at council meetings. The local nobles, not to mention the heads of the other kingdoms, were starting to get offended.

Trade and production were down, so there was less profit _and_ they were struggling to grow enough food to feed themselves. Living in Andalasia was supposed to feel like a dream come true. It was the fairest kingdom of all, but with Frank at the wheel it was slowly becoming a nightmare.

“Lip,” Fiona sighed. “What are we going to do?”

He wrapped his arm around her and squeezed her tight. “I don’t know Fi, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Fiona would have been happy to hide there all afternoon, but the door creaked again and the siblings sprang apart. It wouldn’t do for the staff to see their Crown Prince and Princess despairing over a decimated tray of sweets.

Kermit, their dad’s messenger, greeted them with the same bemused look he always wore. “Your highnesses. The King wants a word.”

Lip wiped Fiona’s fingers clean on the hem of his shirt. Fiona clasped his hand reassuringly and held it as they followed Kermit. It had been a long time since Frank had summoned them. He usually avoided being conscious and prepared to look at the children who each had a little of Monica in them.

When they were ushered into their father’s rooms, the lights were dim - only a few lamps and candles breaking the darkness cast by drawn drapes. Occasionally the light caught the edge of an empty goblet or decanter scattered across the floor. Robes were strewn everywhere, over mirrors and hanging off furniture. Fiona cast her eyes low, fully expecting to find Frank on the ground. But he stood peering through a sliver of light coming in at the edge of the drapes. He was straight-backed and steady and turned to look at them with an intent focus that had been missing from his eyes for a while.

“Kids,” he mumbled quietly.

Lip shifted from foot to foot. “Frank. To what do we owe the sobriety?”

Fiona tugged Lip closer to her side. “What do you want, Frank?”

“I’m abdicating.”

Fiona laughed and Lip dropped her hand.

“Take a seat.” Frank gestured to the small, mostly clear table next to him and Fiona and Lip slowly obeyed.

“This hasn’t been an easy decision,” Frank continued. “But I’ve been considering it for some time and I wanted to prepare you -”

“For what?” Lip interrupted him. “To do everything all on our own? Thanks for the heads up, Frank. We would have had no idea how to cope with that.”

Thankfully, Frank kept his calm. There were few people who got his temper up better than Lip. Only Ian, but that was down to entirely different reasons. “I’m not 'leaving' anyone. But yes, I admit I may have been a less than involved monarch, but truth be told, I don’t want to do this anymore. Not without your mother.”

And just like that, the fight drained out of the siblings. Frank refused to mention Monica anymore unless he was blackout drunk. They knew it hurt him to remember her. It was why he was drinking so much in the first place. But they didn’t know he’d been thinking about giving up his throne because he couldn’t stand not seeing her sitting opposite him.

“What about Ingrid?” Fiona asked. She wasn’t fond of her stepmother, but she had been invaluable in helping to bear the load of a kingdom without Frank.

Frank took the empty seat at the table and placed his trembling hands on the tabletop. They always did that, these days.

“I’ll set her up with a nice home and staff and everything she could possibly want. But I won’t pretend anymore. She’ll never be Monica and it’s not fair to either of us.”

Lip looked a little stunned as he stared at their father. Fiona wasn’t sure if it was because this was the most they’d heard Frank speak since Monica died, or because of his decision.

“When?” he asked eventually.

“Not right away,” Frank reassured them. “The only reason I was half the king I was, was because I was doing it with my one true love. No one should have to do this alone. That’s why I’m decreeing that the first of my children to find their one true love and get married will be the next ruler of Andalasia. Now -” Frank waved them off and produced a full goblet from the shelf behind them. “Go on. Leave an old king be.”

Fiona and Lip filed out of the room and Kermit closed the door behind them. Left in the thick, carpeted corridor, Lip grabbed Fiona’s arm and tugged her away from the door.

“What do you think?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Fiona shook her head. “I don’t know. Are we really surprised?”

Lip agreed. “Maybe more of a blessing in disguise? The longer Frank stays king, the worse things are going to get, Fi. If he’s really doing this - if he’s really abdicating - it could be the best thing for us. And for the kingdom.”

“Yeah but you heard him,” Fiona said. “He’s not going to hand over the crown until one of us finds our one true love. I mean, come on. You and I? We’re not even close. Jimmy was a disaster -”

“-Steve.”

“-and you haven’t been serious with a girl… _ever_.”

Lip couldn’t deny that. But in her distress, his dearest sister was forgetting one crucial thing.

“Who says the next ruler of Andalasia has to be one of us?” he asked her, smiling. “Who says it has to be a king and queen, at all? Two kings are better than one, right? Who’s the only one of us who’s found anything close to their true love?”

He watched it click behind Fiona’s eyes and she grabbed a hold of his shoulder. “We need to talk to Ian.”

The siblings ran off and in their haste they never noticed a door left slightly ajar. Inside were two gleaming eyes and lips twisted in a sneer as Queen Ingrid hid in the shadows until the prince and princess disappeared. When she couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, she slipped out.

So, Frank wanted to abdicate his throne, and replace her with one of his children, did he? Well. That just wouldn’t do at all.

* * *

Trevor was waiting for Ian at the stables. His smile was as soft as his hair looked. Surprise clenched at Ian’s gut at the sight of him, but he smiled sweetly back all the same and dismounted his horse.

“Ian!” Trevor greeted him. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Ian felt a stab of panic. “Why, did something happen?”

Trevor laughed and skipped up to him. “No. Why on earth would you think that?” He clasped both of Ian’s hands in his. “I just missed you. Every minute we’re apart…” He trailed off like the very thought pained him too much to vocalise.

It was sweet. It _was_. Everyone in Andalasia dreamed of finding their one true love by happenstance, feeling so full of feeling that they just had to burst into song, sharing true love’s kiss and getting married the very same day - or the very next if you absolutely had to - to start your happily ever after.

Except. _Except._ When Trevor said things like that, Ian was flattered and it made him feel warm, but he didn’t quite understand. Surely, true love was supposed to be, well, _more_ than this. He should be showering Trevor with the same affection and loving words, expressing the exact same sentiments - but he couldn’t.

“You’re so sweet, Trevor,” Ian said dutifully. He watched as Trevor beamed and Ian saw the intent in his eyes just in time. He turned his head at the last second, so Trevor’s lips brushed his cheek.

Luckily, Trevor wasn’t offended. He was never offended. He thought it was endlessly romantic of Ian actually, saving their true love’s kiss until their wedding day. Only, Ian had never specified when the wedding day _was,_ exactly. They’d met a whole week ago, and it had been right out of a storybook. Trevor’s wagon had been accosted by a small band of trolls. Ian had arrived just in time and he and Karen - his bat companion - had chased them off. Karen had been forced to leave many a cosy cave because of trolls taking refuge there during the daytime. _“They smell, Ian. Like, so bad. I can’t stand it. And they grunt and their snores shake the walls. Literally. One caused that avalanche last winter. Thank god I’ve got your cosy ass palace to hang upside down in.”_ And she’d gleefully showered them with guano.

Whilst she was living her dream, Ian dutifully helped Trevor clean up the mess. Their hands had met over a red apple and Trevor had taken one look deep into Ian’s eyes, drew in a deep gasping breathe to fill his lungs, and had gotten one lonely note out before Ian slapped his hands over Trevor’s mouth.

They’d both been a little stunned.

Ian couldn’t explain why he did it. But a voice in the back of his head told him that it just wasn’t _that_ moment. A week later, and although oblivious Trevor was perfectly content, _that_ moment still hadn’t come.

His family had fully expected to throw the wedding the next day when Ian had returned to the castle with Trevor following happily behind. But Ian had dragged Lip to the side and begged them not to.

But Ian wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold off. The people knew about Trevor and eagerly anticipated a royal wedding. His family had started dropping hints. Only Trevor wasn’t putting him under any kind of pressure. Ian was sure that it would click between them one day. It was what he’d been waiting for his whole life - that one person who makes you feel alive and complete and just _stop_ searching. Surely that was Trevor. It had to be.

* * *

As soon as the footman had informed Lip and Fiona that Ian has making his way from the stables, they fell over each other to race through the castle. Lungs heaving, they reached the front courtyard as Ian walked around the corner with Trevor in tow. Ian watched in alarm as his older brother as sister ran at him and skidding to a stop in front of him, heaving like their lungs were about to fall out of their mouths.

 _“Ian -!”_ gasped Lip.

“Frank - doesn’t… _abdicate_ -”

“We need - marriage -” Lip gave a hacking cough and Fiona rubbed his back.

“What in the world?” Trevor gaped at Ian’s siblings.

Ian grabbed Lip’s shoulders and walked him backwards to a nice wide plinth holding a statue, and forced his brother to sit down. “God, Lip. Take a breather for a second.”

Fiona trotted up beside them. “There’s no time for a breather,” she panted.

Lip drew in a shuddering breath. “You two -” he waved a hand between Trevor and Ian, “Need to get it together.”

Ian blinked at his brother. Now? They were going to do this to him _now?_

“Frank is abdicating,” said Fiona.

Ian sniggered and looked between her and Lip, but Lip wasn’t smirking and Fiona’s eyes weren’t glittering like they did whenever she was up to mischief.

“You’re kidding?” He had to be sure. But they both shook their heads.

“Dead serious,” said Lip. “He’s abdicating the second one of us marries our one true love.” He looked meaningfully towards Trevor, who Ian could _feel_ perking up behind him.

“I - wh -” Ian stammered, taking an unconscious step away from his brother who always had his back no matter what. “When?”

Fiona stepped up. “We were kinda thinking the sooner the better. We can pull something together tomorrow. It’s been a whole week now Ian. It’s time.”

“Why - why is it time?” Ian asked. Trevor looked at him curiously so Ian plowed on. “I mean, what we get married and suddenly I’m King of Andalasia? Seems like a big step, right?”

Trevor’s expression brightened and he nodded supportively.

Fiona and Lip beamed at him though. “We’ll be there for you every step of the way, brother.” Lip said full of conviction. “We’ll help you with everything. You won't be left to do any of it on your own. Not to mention Trevor. You’d have your true love doing it with you.”

Fiona linked arms with Lip. A united front. “Everyone loves you, Ian. You’re kind and you want to help people. Our kingdom needs someone like that. And a wedding would just be,” Fiona sighed happily. “A big ol’ cherry on top of the cake.”

Trevor had drifted towards the crown prince and princess during their little speech. Ian watched with horror as his face did that soft thing and a happy smile filled his eyes with light. He listened with growing dread as everyone thought this was the best idea ever and suddenly all their problems would be solved and everyone would be so happy and everything perfect and just -

“No.”

The chattering came to crashing halt.

“Ian?” Trevor sounded hurt. But what was worse, he sounded concerned. Ian couldn’t stand it.

“I said no,” he choked out.

“Ian -” Fiona reached for him and Ian lurched back. Fiona recoiled as if he’d screamed at her.

But Lip was silent. Lip who had been the one Ian had begged to hold off making wedding preparations in the first place. Lip who liked to casually ask about Trevor and their future, and had been rebuffed by Ian time and time again.

He wasn’t the cleverest person in the kingdom for no reason, and Ian could see the cogs turning.

“Ian, Fiona tried again. “I know it’s big and it’s scary -”

“You don’t know anything. Please, Fiona -”

“- but you’ll be such a great King.”

Trevor piped up cheerfully. “And a great husband.”

“And everything will be as it should be. We just need -”

“I don’t want to be anything!”

A sharp voice snapped them all to attention. “What is going on here?!” Queen Ingrid strode towards them from the palace doors.

Ian near collapsed in relief. It was in stark contrast to Fiona and Lip who stood straight as if lifted by wires. Trevor dipped into appropriate bow before his Queen.

The Queen came before them, hands clasped. Calm and firm. “Princes. Princess,” she started. “Need I remind you the King needs his rest, and certainly does not need to hear his children caterwauling. What is the meaning of this?”

Fiona toyed with her lip. She had a difficult relationship with her Queen and stepmother. She respected Ingrid. She trusted her to help with the kingdom. She was grateful for her, even. But Fiona had never felt like Ingrid was family and wasn’t sure how she would react to her stepchildren trying to dethrone her, even if it was just incidentally.

So, thank god for Trevor’s sunny obliviousness. “We’ve just been discussing wedding plans,” he said cheerfully.

Ian felt a stab of betrayal even though he had absolutely no reason to.

The Queen glanced between them all. Fiona’s eyes darted anxiously between Ian and herself. Lip, as always, was watching, watching, ever watching. But Ian - Ingrid had seen fear many a time, and she could see it behind Ian’s eyes.

Ingrid took a deep breath. Her throne wasn’t in the danger she thought it was. Prince Ian, it seemed, wasn’t ready for marriage, despite what she suspected were his sibling’s best efforts to push him into it. Hedging her bets, she turned to him.

“Is this true, Ian?”

“I - I. Um…”

Trevor nodded at him, still smiling. Ian couldn’t even muster so much as a trembling quirk of the lips.

“I - I _can’t_ -”

“What I see,” Ingrid cut him off, “is a very overwhelmed young man.” She looked Ian dead in the eye and saw him waiting for what she would say next. As if his entire future hung in the balance. Which it did. In more ways than he knew. “Planning weddings can be a stressful business, can’t it dear?”

Ian nodded frantically and Trevor rubbed his back consolingly. Ingrid did not miss the young prince’s eyes twitching at the contact.

“I suggest,” she said to him, “That you go for a walk on this lovely day.”

Fiona jumped in. “He just got back -”

“There is a lovely path near the abandoned cottage in the woods. The one not far from the apothecary. Do you know it?”

Ian knew it.

“Go for a walk, Ian. But be back for dinner.”

Ian didn’t wait. Without sparing a look for his siblings or his fiancé, Ian marched straight out the courtyard. He bypassed the stables and broke into a run as soon as he was out of view. He ran and ran - passed the marketplace full of people. Over the bridge and the children playing on it. Through fields being farmed and the forest eaves being foraged. He didn’t slow until he found the old path and stomped along it as though he could work out all of his frustrations between his feet and the ground.

A whoosh came from overhead and Ian felt a breeze on the back of his neck.

“Geez. Who put droppings in your breakfast this morning?”

“Not now, Karen.”

Ian didn’t slow, but Karen had no problems flapping her leathery wings and keeping pace with him. “What happened?” she asked. “Did lover boy grow a personality and do something? _Anything?_ ”

Ian huffed at her. “Leave Trevor alone. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“I know that,” she agreed. “There’s nothing about him at all. But we’ve sung this song before.”

She had. There had been a woodwind arrangement, dancing insects (which she then ate) and everything.

“So what is it?”

Ian glanced at her. Unlike most bats, Karen was blonde. They’d met when Ian had been searching for a medicinal herb Debbie wanted, which only grew in damp, dark places. He’d found a nice bunch of them at the mouth of a cave and followed it until eventually he’d had to light a torch. The second he’d sparked that flame Karen had screeched and flew at his head. She’d chased him out, insulting him in ways he’d never been insulted before. Ian had been profoundly sorry, so every now and then, he left sweet fruits and other things at the mouth of that cave and then one day, he’d woken up to see Karen hanging from the posts above his bed. He’d screamed so loud Karen had fallen into a big bat heap right in the middle of his bed and the armed guards had stormed the room. Lip hadn’t let him live it down for weeks. But ever since then, Karen had lived him with and became his friend. The one true friend he had outside his family.

“They want me to marry Trevor.”

“Wasn’t that your intention anyway?” She didn’t sound impressed.

“Well, yeah,” Ian hesitated. “I mean, of course it was. _Is._ But they want me to be king, too!”

“So? Marry Trevor and tell them no. They can’t force you to be king.”

Ian didn’t have an answer for that and Karen knew it. He stomped on, and Karen kept smugly quiet as she flew next to him.

“I can marry Trevor if I want to,” he bit out after a few moments.

“That’s literally what everyone is telling you.”

“I just don’t -”

“Don’t what?”

“I can’t -”

“You can’t _what_ , Ian?”

“He’s so sweet and kind and handsome and _nice_. He’s actually perfect! I should march back to the palace right now and marry him! But I just - “

“It’s okay, Ian,” Karen reassured him. “You can say it -”

But she was cut off. A desperate plea pierced the woods. “Help me! Please someone help me! I’m lost!” And small, childlike sobs followed.

Ian and Karen plunged off the path together. They followed the child’s cries, but the further they went into the woods, the thicker they became. Ian, big and solid as he was, had no problems brushing it aside, but Karen struggled to manoeuvre her way through it. Soon, she was lagging behind as Ian charged on.

“Ian, wait!” She tried to call for him, but either he didn’t hear her, or he ignored her, and soon, she lost sight of him altogether.

The cries were getting louder, and Ian thought he was nearly there. He searched desperately for an opening or something that might tell him he was on the right track until at last, as he burst through some thicket that ripped little holes in his shirt and jacket, a little boy sat in front of him in a clearing, his little face in his little hands.

“Hey there,” Ian said sweetly.

The little boy looked up with a gasp. Ian’s heart broke to see the tear stained face. But as soon as they locked eyes, the little boy threw himself at Ian, who caught him in his arms.

“Woah, now,” he said, chuckling a little. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Ian stood up with the child in his arms and looked around. Seems like he found the path again at least, as it wound before him passed a well and further into the woods. But Ian couldn’t see any signs of another person - no parents, so wheel tracks of horse tracks. Nothing.

“Where are your parents?” Ian asked the little boy in his arms.

“I don’t know,” he sobbed. “I followed a beetle and I got lost.”

“Well,” Ian said in his best cheerful voice. “You don’t have to worry about that now. I’m here and we’ll find your family together, okay?”

The boy nodded shyly.

“Are you hurt?” Ian tried to give him a once over as he held the boy, but he nodded again.

“I got something stuck in my foot,” he said and pointed at his bare feet.

Ian frowned and took them over to the well. He sat the little boy down on the lip of it and took a look at his feet. Sure enough, on the sole of the little left foot, a thorn was stuck.

Ian gave the boy a grim look. “It looks pretty bad,” he teased.

The little boy looked horrified. “But I need it!”

Ian fought down a smile. “Well, lucky for you I think I can save it. But you have to be brave. Can you be brave.”

The boy jutted his chin out and nodded.

“Okay then. Here we go,” and with a gentle tug, the thorn came free of the boy’s foot. “Ta da! How’s that?”

The boy jumped up and took one experimental step. When it didn’t hurt, he giggled in delight and skipped around Ian. Ian watched him, grinning at his little skip and took a seat himself on the well. The boy stopped in front of him.

“Thanks mister!”

“You’re very welcome. What’s your name?”

“Oh,” said the little boy happily. “That doesn’t matter!”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Ian asked confused.

“Because you won’t need it.” And then the boy placed his tiny hands on Ian’s chest and with a shove far mightier than any child should possess, he pushed Ian into the well.

When Ian’s screams had died away. The child smiled sweetly. In a second, Queen Ingrid stood in his place and let herself enjoy the sweet second of victory.

Even though Ian hadn’t wanted to marry Trevor right that second, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. And it certainly didn’t mean he wouldn’t let his siblings talk him into it. Now that he was out of the way, she felt much, _much,_ better.

From the leafy canopy above, Karen watched in horror as the Queen retreated from the well. When she was sure the coast was clear she flew down and peered over the edge. If it wasn’t too deep, maybe she could help him. But to her despair, all Karen saw was a swirl of blue and purple and nothing natural at all. _Magic._

She had to get back to the palace. She had to warn Ian’s family. She had to get her friend back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Mentions of child abuse

“ _Jesus._ I don’t know how an ass that tiny can move so damn slow. Move it, Yev! _Now_.”

Their apartment wasn’t huge, but Mickey heard the clattering and bangs from Yev’s room all the way in the lounge.

“What’s goin’ on in there? We gotta go or you’re gonna be late!”

“No!” Yev’s muffled yell came down the hall. “We can’t be late! I have art class first period!”

“Then get your skinny butt out here!”

“I can’t,” clumsy little footsteps tripped down the hall and Yev stumbled into view. He had one shoe half on and both untied. His backpack was vomiting brightly coloured art pens everywhere and Yev was busy trying to stuff his biggest sketchbook in alongside them.

Mickey silently prayed to the ceiling. He’d never seen such a little ball of chaos quite like his son.

“For fuck - give it here. Christ. Go tie your shoes.” Mickey snagged the backpack off him and Yev backed onto the sofa. He plopped Yev’s monstrous, hilariously oversized sketchbook on the coffee table and followed the trail of many colours back to Yev’s room to pack his more normal, school-approved, pad.

Mickey knew he had way too much: too many sketchpads, too many pencils, pens, crayons. Hell, they’d even started dabbling in paints. But art was Yev’s favourite subject. It always had been, ever since when he was a baby who could barely grab those chunky pieces of chalk. And Mickey didn’t have it in him to deny his son much of anything. Not even when he asked for books from the girl’s section, and begged Mickey to start all his bedtimes stories with ‘Once upon a time' and make sure they ended with a ‘happily ever after’. Not even after the last few parents evenings when his teachers proudly showed him Yev’s drawings of princes and princesses and dragons and knights.

Mickey had woken up in cold sweats after dreaming about what Terry would have done in his shoes.

So as a big fuck you to his old man and following his guiding principle of doing the opposite of everything Terry would do, Mickey indulged his son. He fed his creativity and abiding love of fairy tales. His art teacher was even helping Yev illustrate his own stories now, and you bet Mickey had a new drawing pinned on the fridge every week.

Backpack securely zipped, Mickey returned to find Yev fully shoed with a slice of toast in his mouth.

“We ready, Vin Goth?”

“It’s Van Gogh, daddy. And you gotta do your checklist.”

Right, the list. Mickey had locked them out of the apartment so many times, Yev had implemented to pre-departure checklist, where Mickey had to prove he had everything he needed. Yev enforced it ruthlessly.

“A’ight, so we got keys,” Mickey patted his pockets so Yev could hear them jangle. “We got my wallet,” he pointed at the outline in his back pocket. “The boss man is gettin’ us lunch today so I don’t gotta take any food with me, and we got a ph-” Mickey patted his pockets over again, but didn’t hit the smooth flat lines of his phone. “Shit where’s my phone?”

“Daaad!” Yev whined.

“Don’t 'dad' me, Yev," Mickey cut him off. “Help me find it. You use it as much as I do playin’ those damn games.”

Yev huffed but obeyed, and together father and son upended couch cushions and the insides of drawers, and Yev enjoyed it more than he should have. He watched his son eye his backpack speculatively and was about to stage an intervention when the muffled ring of his phone buzzed into the air.

Mickey followed it to the kitchen, but it wasn’t on any of the worktops. Yev giggled behind him. “I think it’s in the fridge.”

Sure enough, when Mickey opened it, there was his phone aglow on top of the butter. This morning could go fuck itself. The fucking _butter_ , Jesus.

Yev screwed his face up at the screen. “It’s Tony.”

Mickey sighed and shoved at Yev’s head, and dragged him to the front door. He slid his thumb across his phone screen and shoved it between his ear and shoulder.

“Yeah?”

_“Mickey, hey. Is this a bad time?”_

“Uh, no it’s, uh - hold on. Just, two seconds.” Mickey thrust the phone at Yev and used some trickery with the lock and his right foot to slam and lock their front door. He took the phone and slipped Yev’s hand into his own.

“What is it, Tony?”

_“Good morning to you too, Mr Milkovich.”_

“Fuck off,” Mickey smirked.

_“Yev get to school okay?”_

“Nah,” Mickey smiled down at his son. “We’re running late because Piccalo here -

“It’s Picasso!”

“-took forever to drag his butt outta bed.”

_“Like father like son then?” Tony teased._

“Yeah like you’d know shit about that.”

“Hey, it’s not me kicking you out before the morning.”

“Yeah, well -”

_“Hey. It’s okay. That’s not what this is about anyway. I told you, I get it.”_

Mickey supposed Tony kinda did, in so far as anyone else _could_ get it. Tony had done him a solid back in Chicago. Svetlana had been missing for weeks, and Mickey had fully taken up the mantle of ‘dad’ and he found it far easier to bond with Yev when his mom wasn’t around to remind him of the exact circumstances of his conception. Tony had dropped by one evening outta the blue and gave him a heads up that Terry would be getting out of prison in a few days.

Mickey has asked him why he bothered dragging his ass all the way over here just to tell him that, and Tony had levelled him with a hard look. _“Because one of my buddies at the prison told me he’d overheard Terry bragging about fixing his faggot son, and he was looking forward to making sure he was still on the straight and narrow. You deserve better than that, Mickey. So does he."_ Tony had looked meaningfully to Yev, placed a small card in one of the creases of Mickey’s folded arms, and turned on his heel and left.

Mickey had called him the next day, and Tony had very enthusiastic put him in touch with another buddy who ran an LGBTQ+ whatever the fuck shelter in New York.

Mickey and Yev were gone before Terry even left his jail cell.

They’d kept in touch, and then a few years later, Tony had transferred to New York and the two had eventually started on some kind of tentative relationship. And one of Mickey’s hard and fast rules was they were not "together" in front of Yev. Ever.

“Yeah, alright, man. So what is it?”

_“I wanna take you out again. Soon.”_

This was another thing. Tony was hellbent on taking Mickey out on dates. Which wasn’t Mickey’s thing. Like, at all.

_“Are you free tonight?”_

Mickey cupped the back of Yev’s head. “Not tonight. Yev and I have an ice cream date tonight.” The little boy’s grin was astounding.

Tony sighed, but still sounded pleasant. That was Tony all round, see? _Pleasant_. _“Okay. That sounds great, and I hope you have fun. When can I see you then? It doesn’t even have to be anything romantic. I haven’t seen Yev in a while.”_

Truth be told Mickey had given Tony the brush off a few times now. He felt kinda bad for it. He liked Tony, he really did. But the whole clean cut do-good cop thing wasn’t what Mickey had ever envisioned himself with. Hell, he hadn’t envisioned anything, fully convinced Terry would kill him eventually. He’d been content to get in as many back alley fucks before then as possible. So, the idea that there was a man openly pursuing him and trying to take him out in public and all that shit, was all just a bit much. Still. After what he’d done for them, Tony didn’t deserve to be ghosted.

“Okay. How about tomorrow morning. You can walk with me and Yev to school and work and shit?”

Mickey could hear Tony’s grin through the phone just as much as he he could feel Yev staring at him.

_“That would be great, Mickey. Feels like we haven’t spent any time together in a while.”_

“Yeah, I know. It’s just been wild -”

_“Don’t apologise. Look, I’ll let you get on with walking Yev to school, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Already looking forward to it.”_

“Yeah, uh, me too. See ya, Tony.”

_“Bye Mickey.”_

There were a few seconds of merciful silence after Mickey slipped his phone back in his pocket. Yev’s feet pitter pattered next to his and swung their hands idly between them. 

“Do I _have_ to go on a Tony date?”

Mickey bust out a laugh. This kid killed him sometimes. He was as sweet as sugar to everyone, but for some reason he really didn’t vibe with Tony. The few times Mickey had let them all hang out together - strictly platonic between him and Tony of course - Yev had grumbled and mumbled and dragged his tiny feet the whole way.

“It’s not a date, jackass,” he pulled Yev into his side. “He’s just gonna walk to school with us tomorrow. We’ll even grab one of those pastries you like, huh?”

“Mrs Grotski says bribery is wrong.”

“Okay,” Mickey smothered a laugh. “The we _won’t_ get you a pastry and you’ll have to do it anyway.”

“I didn’t say we had to tell her!”

Mickey laughed, ruffled Yev’s hair and pushed him this way and that. “Oh, is that right, tough guy? We keeping secrets now, huh? What’s your price - name your price!”

Yev’s giggles filled the air and his little hands pushed at Mickey’s own. He balled them up into little fits and jabbed like Mickey had taught him. Micky turned and side-stepped down the street, ducking and diving and blocking Yev’s punches.

“That all you got, Ali?”

“I’m gonna beat ya, dad!”

Mickey stilled and Yev nearly tripped over him until Mickey steadied him. “Oh really?” He asked, eyebrows high.

Yev copied him and nodded all smug. Mickey thumbed his lip and in a snap, heaved Yev up over his shoulder and hauled ass down the street with his son screaming in delight.

Every damn day Mickey was grateful they split Chicago. He’d have probably drank himself to death by now, or Terry would have finally killed him, and Yev would be alone - or worse, left to Terry’s mercy if Svetlana never came back. And Mickey had his own suspicions about what happened to her. Thank fuck Yev was too young to remember her when she disappeared. It left Mickey at liberty to weave his own stories about a mommy who had to go away but loved Yev very much. He fuckin’ hated Svetlana and everything she represented, but she had loved the kid. And Yev deserved to know that.

Finally within sight of the school and with five minutes to spare, Mickey set Yev down and they walked the rest of the way hand in hand. He knew Yev was getting to the age were hand holding would be _gross, dad_ and _weird, dad. I’m not a baby, dad._ But he’d enjoy it whilst he could.

“Alright squirt,” Mickey said once they got the gates. “You have a good day. Learn shit, draw stuff, be good.”

Mickey righted the straps on Yev’s shoulders and straightened the bottom of Yev’s jacket. But, instead of running off to his friends, Yev tugged on Mickey’s hand.

“Dad, do you love Tony?”

 _“Jesus_ , Yev -” This kid. This fuckin’ kid. “Where’s this coming from? If you hate him just tell me.”

“I don’t hate him,” Yev said. “Tony’s nice. I like him.”

Mickey knelt so he could be face to face with his son. “Yeah? I like him too.” Liked being the operative word.

“But you don’t love him? Like, he’s not your true love, is he?”

That was the part of Yev’s obsession with fairy tales that Mickey could live without. The kid was so hung up on the idea of true love. Mickey thought it was all bullshit - _knew_ it was all bullshit. Mandy had chased that shit like a crackhead and all it had gotten her was fat lips, broken hearts, and a few close calls with some STDs. His brothers were a joke and fucked anything that moved, and the less said about his parents’ marriage the better. All Mickey had ever seen of love involved lying, cheating, and beatings. No fuckin’ thank you.

But he supposed Yev didn’t need to know that yet. So Mickey deflected.

“What do you think?”

Yev shook his head emphatically. “No way. So, if you keep dating him, and your true love turns up and sees him, they might leave and never come back!”

“This is the kinda stuff that keeps you up at night, huh?”

“Dad I’m serious!”

“Then they wouldn’t be much of a true love then, would they?”

Yev mulled it over, but any comeback was cut off by the bell.

“Go on,” Mickey headbutted him softly. “Get your ass to class.”

Yev hugged him swiftly and ran after the rest of the tiny little troops swarming into the school. Mickey didn't take his eyes off him until Yev was out of sight.

He set off to work with the stupid smile on his face only his son could bring. As much as he didn’t understand all that one true love bullshit, it was warming that Yev wanted Mickey to have his - his _person_ , he guessed. And he railed so doggedly against anyone in Mickey’s life who he thought wasn’t it. It was a nice idea, and Yev wasn’t wrong about Tony being just a bit too nice. Mickey liked a bit of fight - a bit of South Side if that was the right way to put it. Someone who’d argue with him, push back, and didn’t look at Mickey as something rough that just needed to be buffed out a little. And Tony was a lot of things. He was sweet. He was kinda funny, mostly unintentionally and Mickey sometimes felt a little guilty for laughing at him instead of with him. And he was mad open with PDA and flirting and all that shit that made Mickey uncomfortable. Sure, it was flattering. Tony was fine and cut as hell and got a lotta looks from men and women. But he did it without thinking, and Mickey felt forced to shut it down and had to deal with the hurt looks from Tony for days afterwards. Whatever, Mickey warned him. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t listen.

Besides, as nice as a true love would be, there’s no way it could exist in the same world as Terry Milkovich. As long as that bastard breathed, Mickey was never going to feel safe enough for Yevy’s fairy tales.

Mickey didn’t work far from Yev’s school and it wasn’t long before the bell tinkled above the front door of the tattoo parlour.

“Good morning Mickey Mouse!”

“Fuck off, Angie.”

Angie Zago, the receptionist to this whole affair, had delighted in his name when Mickey first started. She’d idly drawn Mickey Mouse ears on his application for his apprenticeship and everything. That had been years ago and she still relished in calling him that infernal fuckin’ mouse at least once every shift. Mickey hated it, but he didn’t mind Angie. She’d tried to fuck him at first - liked to sidle up real close when he was observing the artists, making coffee in the back or whenever she had a chance, really. When she’d caught him on a bad day and he’d finally snapped at her to _“Seriously, just back the fuck up, nut job. Mind your business and keep your beak the fuck outta mine. This ain’t happening”_ , she still hadn’t been deterred. It had been worse the first time he’d had to bring Yev into the shop. Toddling and ill, Mickey had tried to get the day off to look after him, but they were short staffed as it was. So they’d agreed to let Mickey bring the kid in and Angie was on babysitting duty whenever Mickey was busy. She’d fuckin’ melted and seriously ramped up her ‘Fucking Mickey’ efforts. Though not enough to miss a guy who came in for an appointment one afternoon. Mickey had seized the opportunity.

“Damn you could just bite that thing, couldn’t you?” She’d said as the guy bent over to untie his shoe. “Not as good as yours Mickey, but _ooh!”_

Mickey had hummed deep and satisfied. “Damn is right. Fills those jeans out _real_ nice.”

Angie had stared at him and Mickey bit his lip, gave the guys ass one last good leer, and wandered off to answer the phone Angie seemed to have no intention of answering.

She’d been no less annoying since then, but at least she’d stopped trying to fuck him. Most of the time.

“Yev get to school okay?” She asked.

“No, he tripped half way there so I just left him in the gutter.”

Angie gave him the finger and passed him a hot cup of coffee. “You’re 9.30 is here already.”

“The fuck? It’s barely 9.15.”

Angie shrugged, grinning. “Keen bean.”

“Did you at least get my station ready?”

Angie scoffed and waved Mickey off. “As if, Mr Tattoo Man. I’m not the flunky around here and the boss let the new kid start late this morning.”

Mickey sighed and dragged his ass back to his station to prep it for his first client. He’d been a fully qualified tattoo artist for a few years and was gaining a nice name for himself with the locals. He was requested pretty regularly and the boss had been at him to up his hours and just bring Yev by the shop if childcare was an issue. Mickey wasn’t sold. Work was cool, but it was work. And he wasn’t cut out to be one of those fuckers dedicated to their jobs.

A fresh coffee and some silent prayers to give him patience for the day, and Mickey was giving Angie the nod to send his client back. The guy tripped towards him with a smile, hand already stretched out from three meters away.

“Hey man, how you doin’?” He gushed cheerfully. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this for weeks.”

Mickey nodded and managed to dodge the handshake by waving the guy off to the chair.

“What’s it gonna be, fella?”

“Well,” The guy dived into his back pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled pieces of paper. “I haven’t really decided yet - I’m stuck between two. Can you help me out?”

Mickey gestured for the papers and smoothed them out over his thigh. They were rough as fuck. One was a set of palms holding a lily. Cheesy as fuck and a bit too feminine for his tastes, but he could work with it. The other was that overly cursive script he fuckin’ _hated_ , and lo' and fuckin’ behold, it said _Lily._

Mickey scratched his nose. “You got a daughter?” he asked. He wanted to get the lay of the land, first.

“No, that’s my lady,” he sighed. “Proposed last month, so we’re getting married.”

“Okay,” Mickey muttered. He rubbed his face and took a calming breath. The guy was a client. He was a client, and Mickey was an employee and there were rules. “So, that’s not happening.” He thrust the lovingly scripted name back at the guy, whose smile finally dipped.

“What?”

“I don’t do names - not girlfriend’s, wives, boyfriends - whatever.”

“You can’t just -”

“I can.” Mickey could feel Angie looking over, but he ploughed on. “Look, once you get your tattoo, what then? You leave here, all proud of yourself and you wanna show it off right? Your friends like it and they ask you, _hey, where’d you get that?_ And my name is tied to that shit forever. So I can’t have you leave here with something I ain’t willing to have my name against. Getting some chick’s name tattooed on you that isn’t your kid, is stupid.”

“She’s my fiancée!”

“Yeah? So? What if she cheats on you? You cheat on her? What if the relationship breaks down a few years down the line for whatever fuckin’ reason? I can do the palms and flower shit, but if you want her name, you go to someone else. What’s it gonna be?”

He watched the guy digest his words until he grudgingly nodded towards the lily drawing and Mickey got to work.

Mickey hated script at the best of times, but between all the shitty relationships he’d seen in his life and the amount of clients he’d seen come storming back demanding a refund _and_ a free cover up after the partner who’s name they just _had_ to get tattooed on their body fucked off with some newer model with a tighter body, he thought tattooing someone’s name on you was the stupidest thing a person could do. Hell, Mickey didn’t even have Yev’s name on him. Instead, he had a ‘Y’ on his ring finger, with the stem pointed in, and on the opposite forearm he had one of Yev’s first kinda coherent drawings. Yev’s teacher had pulled him aside one day and proudly showed him what Yev had been working on, even forfeiting his turn in the sandbox. In clumsy circles and wonky squares, he’d been reliably informed that it was him and Yev. There was a good shock of black crayon on one of the figures, and the little one was blonde. Yev had looked so pleased when Mickey had pinned it on the fridge that the next day, he’d gone a step further and asked one of the artists to draw something up and if they could take the fee outta his pay. Even today, Yev liked to roll his sleeve up and trace the lines over and over again.

That was true love. Not anything else these assholes thought they knew.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Offensive language against mental illness  
> Attempted mugging  
> Minor violence  
> Minor mentions of child abuse

Falling. He was still falling. He’d been falling for so long. His throat was raw from screaming and all he had left was panicked gasps in the endless space he was falling through. He felt - his skin was cold. All the little hairs stood on end. He felt _awful_. So awful and he just wanted it to end -

_Thunk!_

It stopped. Ian heaved cold breathes in through his lungs. His belly still felt swoopy but he was finally still. He pressed shaky hands to the ground and it was hard and wet and, fuck _why_ was everything so cold?

His arms trembled as he pushed himself a little more upright. He looked around and it was so dark, but just above him, right above his head, was the smallest little dot of light and it called to Ian like a beacon. He dragged himself to sitting and reached out. It looked so far away but he had to try. But to his surprise, Ian’ fingertips brushed something solid straight away, and the little light was snuffed out. He snatched his hand back in a panic, barely holding back a sob, but the light came back. He waved his hand in front of it and sure enough - it was a hole! There was light outside of wherever _here_ was. 

With a new sense of determination, Ian kneeled and pushed up, and whatever was above him gave way. Ian stood and pushed and the sliver of light became a wedge, became a semi circle, became the most beautiful halo of light he’d ever seen. Ian clambered up and up. His hands were on the other side now and they touched something rough and warm. He pushed off his toes and used his arms to hoist himself up, until finally, finally and mercifully, he emerged into the light.

Ian tumbled out of the hole onto the ground and heaved in a lungful of air. It wasn’t the crisp sweet air he was used to, but gritty, smoky, and disgusting. His deep, cleansing breath turned into a hacking cough on all fours. He felt hands on him, helping him up, and Ian finally looked up. It was daytime and he squinted his eyes against the light after spending what felt like forever falling in the dark.

But the sounds. He was surrounded by sound. He heard harsh beeps and yelling. There as a banging so loud he felt it inside his skull. There were droning sounds and repeating sounds. High sounds and low sounds. Everything and all of it filling every space in Ian’s head, gods he couldn’t even _think._

“Easy there, fella,” said a voice to his right.

“Did he just crawl from the sewer?”

“Jesus. What was he doin’ down there -”

“-I told you people lived there, Manny! Didn’t I tell you -”

“Please,” Ian pleaded quietly. The chatter from the voices surrounding him eased and Ian cracked open his eyelids again. He saw faces, different from any faces he’d ever seen. Everything looked different. The colours were different, the shapes were different. The detail - he was surrounded by half a dozen concerned faces, lined in all different ways, eyes all different colours. Curly hair, straight hair, no hair. And their clothes!

“Where am I?” he whispered.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said the one closest to him, who’s hands were steadying him. “You don’t know where you are?”

Ian shook his head, fighting down an uncomfortable feeling that tightened his chest and clogged his throat.

“You’re in New York, buddy.”

The men around them jeered, smiling, but none of it helped Ian. “I don’t know New York,” he said, focusing on that one man. “What kingdom is it in?”

The smiles dropped and so did Ian’s belly.

“Ah, shit.”

“Hey listen, it’s okay -”

“He’s got a case of the Fruit Loops -”

“We’ll get you some help alright. You wanna sit down?”

“Call an ambulance. Let ‘em know we got a psyche case.”

The guy squeezed his shoulder. “Where do you live, huh? Do you know where you come from?”

Ian’s shoulders sagged in relief. Something familiar Something he did know. Finally. “Yes! Yes, of course I do.”

The guy’s smile matched his and he thumped Ian on the back. “Hey, my name’s Finn. Anschel Finn. What’s yours?”

“Oh,” Ian reached out and clasped Anschel’s hand in both of his. “Oh, I’m Ian. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. You can help me?”

“I can try, kid. Where you from?”

“Andalasia.”

“Andawhat?” Anschel pulled out his phone. “Is that on the west coast? How did you even get here, man?”

“Andalasia. Oh, it’s beautiful Anschel. You’d love it. And if you help me get back, you can see it for yourself. My family would wanna thank you properly for helping me.”

Anschel nodded absently as he tapped on his phone. Ian listened to the little clicks anxiously and briefly marvelled that he could hear them at all over the unending cacophony of this strange, new place.

Anschel grimaced. “Sorry kid, The Oracle hasn’t heard of it, either.” He waved his phone in the air, and Ian glimpsed a white light and a solitary colourful picture at the top.

“Oh. Well, can I speak to the Oracle? I can tell them about it, and then they might remember?”

Anschel grimaced again and without taking his eyes of Ian, and called to one of the other people. “Harris. You call that ambulance yet?”

Ian frowned. “What’s an ambulance? Will they help me?”

“Yeah, Ian,” Anschel reassured him. “They’ll help you. They can take you somewhere, give you a hot meal and fresh clothes,” he plucked at Ian’s jerkin, “and they’ll get you the medicine you need to get better, okay?”

Far from the reassuring affect Anschel had attended, Ian reeled back, horrified. “I’m not sick.”

Anschel raised placating hands. “No, of course not. You just need a little help -”

“And I’m not stupid! You don’t take anything to eat or drink from strangers. Ever! Lip and Fiona made sure we all knew that growing up. And that includes medicine!”

“Okay. It’s okay -”

“Why won’t someone help me?” Ian started to drift through the crowds. Hands tried to pull him back and he heard Anschel calling after him, but he pressed on, murmuring to himself the whole while.

_Oh gosh, Where am I? How did I get here? Who was that little boy? Why did he push me in? Since when was there a magical well in the kingdom! They were banned after that poor older couple fell in._

Ian tried to reach out to people as he wandered. He tapped on shoulders and asked politely and everything, but people just barged passed or shrugged him off, or barked at him, _“Back off, weirdo!”_ He tried calling out to some pigeons, but he only really caught snatches of what they were trying to tell him. Something about and man, and a hat, he wasn’t sure. A couple of horses were tied up to a carriage, and Ian’s heart leapt. The carriage was beautifully decorated. He could see the gilding glinting in the sun all the way across the square. Surely, a carriage that fine meant royalty, or at least nobility. He darted over and introduced himself to the horses, gasping.

“Hello! Hi! I'm - I'm Ian. Gallagher? I really need someone who can help me. Where’s - where’s your driver?”

The horses eyed him, tails flicking behind them.

“Over there,” one of them nosed towards a man stood hunched over something in his hand, puffing smoke from his mouth. “But he doesn’t know where he’s going most of the time. He’d be lost without us.”

Ian felt like crying. “Well can you help me? I have to get back to Andalasia. Who rules here? Where can I talk to them? ”

The horses huffed and grunted. “We’re not sure. Fatso over there complains a lot about City Hall, though. So maybe try there.”

“Well where can I find it?”

One of the horses stamped their front hoof. “You have to head down there. It’s a ways away but make your way towards the water, and you can’t miss it. We got some friends down there so if you get lost, just ask ‘em.”

Ian nearly collapsed with relief. Finally, a start. “Thank you,” he sighed. “Thank you so much!”

The horses neighed their good lucks as Ian ran off. He was going to get to City Hall come hell or high water. He had to get home. He had to warn him family that something wasn’t right in Andalasia. He had to get out of here.

* * *

Karen flapped her wings faster than she ever had before in her life. This was bullshit. She felt like she was dying. Stupid, gullible, impulsive princes without a brain cell to save them.

She flew past branches and brambles, clipped the ears of the sorry idiots who got in her way. This was what she got for taking up with rick folks - with royalty no less. She should be sleeping right now. In a whole colony with other bat friends. But no, here she was, the only diurnal bat in the whole kingdom, flying headlong into whatever human bullshit she’d just seen.

She should have found someone by now. She’d cleared the forest, the fields, the marketplace. Those Gallaghers were a dime a dozen and you could barely go anywhere in this kingdom without tripping over at least one of them. But no, the one time she needed one, they were nowhere to be found. She circled around to peer over the gardens. The furthest she could find someone from the palace the better, now that the Queen wasn’t to be trusted. Finally, beyond the maze and the stupid waterfall, and into the orchard, she recognised the curly head of her least favourite Gallagher prince - Lip. The one and only time in her life she was grateful to see him.

Karen didn’t call out for him. She didn’t want to raise the alarm or get the attention of the Queen or anyone working for her. So naturally, Lip didn’t hear her coming up behind him, and turned around just in time to see Karen hurtling towards him.

He was too late to duck and Karen careened into his face, sending them both sprawling onto the ground.

“Oh, _ew!_ Get off me, y’flying rat!”

Karen dug her little hooks into the grass to crawl away, and if that meant smearing her little furry body all over Lips face even more, _well_.

“That’s a rodent to you, jackass!”

“Ugh!” Lip pushed her away and rolled onto his front. He clutched the hem of his shirt and frantically wiped his face. “I’ll need to see a healer in case you gave me rabies!”

“You only get it if I bite or scratch you. If you want rabies, _your highness_ , I’ll give you rabies!”

Karen hissed, raised her leathery wings and took a run at Lip. To her immense satisfaction he crawled backwards on his hands to get away from her.

“Alright! Alright! Keep your diseases to yourself! Didn’t think even bats were stupid enough to forget how to fly.”

“Just shut _up,_ Lip. We don’t have time -”

And despite Lip’s many, _many,_ flaws, he wasn’t stupid. He heard the shift in Karen’s tone immediately.

“What is it - is it Ian?”

Karen fluttered into the air again and perched on Lip’s shoulder.

“He’s gone, Lip.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“As in _gone._ As in, lured to a magical well by a creepy little kid voice. As in, pushed into a magical well by said creepy little kid.”

Lip moved so fast he dislodged Karen. “A _what?_ No - no way. They were banned -!”

“Yeah well someone didn’t listen. But that’s not important -”

“How is that not important?! My brother has gone who knows where because someone’s breaking the law - our laws! Gods Karen, this I the last thing we need after -” Lip cut himself off and rubbed his face fiercely with his hands. “Where is he?”

“It was off the old road -”

“Yeah, I got that. Ingrid told him to take a walk there to clear his head -”

“She _what?!_ ”

“ - after that disaster earlier. _Where_ on the path?”

“It was her, Lip.”

Lip finally stilled and seemed to listen to what Karen had been trying to tell him. “What was who?” he asked carefully.

“It was the Queen. I flew after him as fast as I could, I really did! Much as I think the rest of you are a waste of space, I actually _like_ Ian. But the forest kept getting thicker and I got turned around. By the time I finally got there I saw a little boy push Ian in and after he fell, it turned into the Queen. It was the Queen, Lip. She did it. She pushed him.”

Lip studied Karen for a minute, weighing her words she hoped. There was no love lost between them. When Ian had brought her home, Lip had spent the better part of a week trying to convince him to turn her out. To get a nice normal animal friend like Debbie’s squirrel, or even Carl’s turtle. But Ian wouldn’t be moved and Lip had to grudgingly accept Karen’s presence in their home. An acceptance Karen made even more difficult by perching in his room and defecating everywhere when he wasn’t there.

Serves that self-righteous idiot, right. But she hoped, she hoped that Lip would listen to her now.

She hoped for nought.

“No. No way.” Lip brushed her off and stepped away.

“Lip I’m telling you -”

“You saw wrong alright! There’s no way Ingrid would do that. Jeez, she’s the only reason -”

“What? She’s the only reason what? That Ian’s gone? Yeah. That we have no idea where he is or what he’s going through, or if he’s even okay? Yeah, she’s the only one responsible for that.”

“She’s the only reason we’re not starving even worse than we already are! God Karen,” Lip laughed. “I know you might not see it, living off flies and all, but people here are hungry. They’re hungry. Everything’s supposed to be _perfect_ , and we’re all hungry. We’re losing money. We can’t grow anything because we can’t buy the seed. We can’t feed ourselves because the little we can grow has to be traded for other things we need, like medicine. We’re getting food from other kingdoms for next to nothing because Ingrid helped us.”

Karen seethed silently as Lip stared her down.

“So, I don’t care what you think you saw,” he said. “Alright? I don’t. There’s no way.”

“Believe me or not,” Karen hissed, and fluttered close to his face. “But Ian’s still gone, and we have no idea where."

Lip swore, turned on his heel and sprinted back to the castle - no doubt to rally the troops, preferably literally. She took a second to compose herself. She hated that a spoiled prince could get to her so easily, but that wasn’t the priority. She’d just have to deal and then go back to hating him as soon as Ian was home safely.

Beneath her, Karen noticed some fresh turned earth on the ground. It must have been what Lip was doing before she hurtled into him. Well, he could shove his green thumb up his ass. Call her petty, but Karen felt much better when she left Lip’s pet project a little guano present before she took off after him.

* * *

“What’s 12 times 1423?!”

“That’s not a real equation!”

Mickey cleaned up his station for the night listening to Yevy squeal and laugh and chase Angie around the shop. The kid had smashed his math test at school and when Mickey had proudly announced this back in the parlour after he’d picked Yev up from school, everyone had overreacted appropriately. Yev had blushed to the roots of his hair but did the round of high fives all the same. Boss Man Enzo had even made him a cup of hot chocolate.

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

Mickey better put a stop to this because honestly, Angie was worse than the kid. “Alright already! Christ, do you wanna talk about numbers all night or do you wanna go get some ice cream?”

Yev was at his side in a second. “I’m ready, dad,” he promised solemnly.

Mickey ran his hand gently through Yev’s hair as Angie fetched his coat from the back room.

“C’mere Einstein,” she said and Yevy ran with his arms outstretched. “What kinda ice cream do the smartest boys in the world like?”

“All of it,” said Yev, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

Angie zipped up the coat and tugged Yev closer. “So- _ree_ smart guy. That’s what I get for asking a stupid question, huh?”

They giggled together and a voice piped up from the back. “You make sure you get at least two scoops Yev, you hear me? I know exactly what I pay your dad, so I know exactly what he can afford.” Enzo stood at the door of the back office and smirked at Mickey. “Get sprinkles, chocolate chunks, and all that stuff, too.”

Whilst Yev was staring at his boss delightedly, Mickey gave him the finger. “Not if he wants to sleep this decade, he won’t.”

Yev turned on him, wounded. “But dad…”

“We gonna wait for the ice cream place to close or what?”

That snapped his little man to attention. With a quick hug to Angie and a wave to Enzo, Yev was herding Mickey out the door and onto the street like he was New York’s tiniest bouncer.

“Let’s go, dad. Lets go!”

Mickey looked between Yev and the ground. “We’re already going! What do you call this?”

Then Yev got that look in his eye and stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth just like Mickey did. “An old man walk.”

“Old man, huh?” Mickey grinned to see his son sassing him without an inch of fear. He'd never had that. Terry would have had his ass on the ground and blood in his mouth so fast, Mickey wouldn’t have known which way was up. But here was this fearless kid - _his_ fearless kid - fully trusting his dad to go along with the joke.

And when it came to Yevy, Mickey hated to disappoint. He lurched forward and chased Yev down the sidewalk. It was only ten minutes walking to the ice cream parlour, and Yev knew every crossing and turn, so he knew when to wait for Mickey. Even so, Mickey was never more than a step behind him, but he let the little sucker take the lead and scream his head off in delight of it all. A couple of streets away from the parlour, Mickey caught a gasping Yev round the waist and hauled him up. Being carried was another thing Yev was getting “too old” for, but he’d yet to turn down a piggy back. Legs secured round Mickey’s waist and hands around Mickey’s neck, he panted into the back of his dad’s head.

“I - bet, I can run, _twice_ as fast, after - after ice cream,” he gasped.

“In through your nose out through your mouth Yev, Christ. Don’t pass out on me. Or I gotta eat your ice cream too.”

“Then you could run forever!”

The idea gave Mickey chills. “Thanks for the confidence kid, but I’ll pass.”

Yev giggled and fell into a happy silence. He patted his little hands along Mickey’s collar to some rhythm only he heard and kicked his feet out in front. As much his kid could chatter, he was just as happy with silence, which Mickey was endlessly grateful for. He’d been a pretty chill baby. When he’d grabbed him and ran all the way out to New York, all the fuckers who liked to coo over him in his stroller faithfully swore he’d give Mickey hell soon enough. Well, shows what those assholes knew. Yevy had stayed a good kid.

It’s why he never really minded treating him like this. If Mickey had rushed to his dad at the school gates (if he’d ever bothered to turn up a day in Mickey’s childhood), beaming and clutching a math test and demanding a treat, Terry Milkovich would have treated him alright. He wouldn’t have been allowed to go back to school until the swelling went down in case that nosey nurse bitch called CPS again.

But every time Yevy pulled shit like this - confiding in him that he was nervous about the test; trusting Mickey, in his _dad_ , to fix it; actually wanting to share his excitement with Mickey and never, not once doubting that Mickey would be excited for him and they’d celebrate all his little victories together.

When the fuck did Mickey Milkovich become someone dependable or worse, trustworthy?

Dadhood really made a bitch soft, huh? But fuckever, their ice cream parlour did the best peanut butter and chocolate swirl in New York, bar none.

It was some mom and pops place Mickey had discovered when he was new to the tattooing game. He’d just started as an apprentice and didn’t know the area well yet, so took off to try and find some hole in the wall diners where he could even half fill his belly without bursting his wallet or taking food outta his kid’s mouth. They’d been on such a tight budget that even Mickey’s pop tarts had been forfeited to pay bills and buy clothes for Mr Stretch who just wouldn’t stop growing. But that day, Mickey’s sweet tooth just wouldn’t quit, and by lunch time, Mickey had pledged his lunch budget for the day to some sweet sugary heaven. His love affair with _Sweet Dreams Ices_ had started from that day forward. Despite that stupid fuckin’ name.

They turned onto the street now, quiet for New York, but Mickey liked it that way. The snooty bastards in their glass towers might look at the place and think it’s seedy, but it was no worse than the South Side. A significant step up actually, so there.

Yev wriggled down Mickey’s back, and Mickey and caught his hood before he could run off too far. He took to jumping as he walked, chanting _Ice cream, Ice cream_ those last few steps before the door. But on the very last _“Ice cream!”_ , Yev stopped and gasped, and darted past the doorway.

“Woah - Yev, get back here!”

“Daddy look!”

Yev tried to run but Mickey quickly stepped in front of him and headed off any escape attempts. “What did I say about running off - !”

“Dad, we have to help! The man - look!” Yev pointed behind them, sweet face distressed and Mickey whipped around, a firm hand on his shoulder.

Even though dark had started to fall, Mickey could easily see a guy wandering down the bottom of the street, looking hopelessly lost. Fuckin’ tourists. It’s like they were askin’ to be mugged. Travel 101 - always look like you know where you’re going, even when you don’t. Otherwise that nice person who stops to help you out? They’re gonna split with your wallet, your phone, and anything else you got on you.

Sure enough, Mickey saw a couple of guys tailing him. They nudged and muttered to each other and Mickey was positive he saw one of ‘em flash a little bit of something and smile. He was willing to bet his bank account that they were smiling at the comforting weight of a knife.

Back in Chicago, Mickey had never gotten involved when he didn’t have to. It was a waste of energy, and why beat on someone for free when he had plenty of people he had to shake down for actual money owed? And now he was living free of his old man and alone with Yev in New York, jumping headlong into fights when he didn’t have to was just plain stupid.

But he also didn’t want what he was 99% sure was about to happen, unravel where Yevy could see.

Mickey swore to himself and dragged a struggling Yev into the ice cream parlour.

“But dad!”

“Quiet, Yev.”

“You gotta help!”

Mickey hailed Maggie, their regular waitress. She was a Bostonian firecracker with a heart of gold. “Hey, Maggie? Can you watch Yev a quick sec?”

Maggie hustled over, coffee pot in hand. “Sure,” she pulled Yev into her side. “What’s the matter?”

“Some fuckin’ kid down the street gettin’ cased. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Wait dad, I can help!”

“Yevgeny!” Yev shut up and slumped against Maggie. He knew not to push when Mickey brought out his full name. “I ain’t playin’. This is not a game. Keep your ass here. If I hear you’ve moved an inch, you don’t even know what kinda trouble you’ll be in. That understood?”

Yev nodded glumly and Mickey darted out of the store. He felt a little bad, but he’d make it up to the kid and let him get syrup _and_ two scoops. Yev was terrible at stayin’ mad at him for long.

Thankfully, the red head hadn’t moved far. He seemed to be circling the same intersection, almost afraid to make a decision and move on.

The closer Mickey got to him and the assholes following him, the more confused he got. He was wearing some kind of leather coat and soft pants, like – were they fucking _leggings?_ He did let himself appreciate for a sec that they did wonders for his legs and ass, but he was fairly sure he’d seen somethin’ similar on the folks who went to those Renaissance fairs. His boots looked weird too, and cut off just below his knees. The fucker looked to be a mile tall, but Mickey didn’t peg history nerds to be the sort fully equipped to fend off an armed and determined mugger.

Mickey picked up his pace just in time. He saw the muggers pull bandannas over their mouths and slip sunglasses over their eyes as they sped up to catch the stranger. They separated, so one approached from the front and the other from behind. A classic divide and entrap manoeuvre. Mickey and his brothers had done it a whole bunch of times. He moved from a jog to an all out run. They had reached him now, had just opened their mouths, probably pretending to ask the time, and the one at the back pulled out his knife and moved in.

“Hey asshole! You better put that back unless you want me to ram it down your fuckin’ throat!”

* * *

Ian was lost. Hopelessly and utterly lost.

He’d went straight just like the horses had said, but they’d never mentioned there were so many roads. It was loud and dusty and Ian had discovered he did _not_ like getting jostled by strangers as he tried to fight his way through them. So, he’d taken one of the smaller streets hoping it’d be quieter. And he was right, for the most part. But after a while, it had gotten too quiet. He’d barely seen anyone. The ground was dirty and the air smelled bitter, and with every step Ian got a stronger and stronger feeling that he just shouldn’t be there.

He’d gotten turned around so many times, trying to retrace his steps back to the busy road, that he didn’t know which way was up anymore. He wanted to find the horses again, but didn’t know if he was walking back the way he came, or if he was any closer to this City Hall. He was getting colder even though this was his favourite coat and it never left him cold in Andalasia.

But Ian was coming to the realising that he was further from Andalasia than he feared. Everything looked different. He looked different. His hands hadn’t had so many lines on them before. And he was starting to feel afraid. It had taken him a while to identify that awful queasy knotted feeling in his belly, but he was afraid. He should be at home, reading to Liam and asking Debbie about her day. He should be giving Fiona the hugs she loved so much when she was tired, and he should be fighting with Lip over something so ridiculously stupid that when someone asked what on earth they were doing, they collapsed into laughter. He should be _home._ Not here, wherever it was.

Ian had eventually stumbled back onto what looked like a main road. There were a few more people, but not many, but it was at least a little bit brighter despite the setting sun, and there was much more air. No better quality, but Ian felt less claustrophobic. After a short walk, he came to what looked like a crossroads. He could go forward, back, left, or right. The roads were wide and lined with white stripes, and there were signs, but none of them read 'Andalasia', or anywhere Ian even remotely recognised. He wandered between the four corners, peering down the roads and rereading the signs over a hundred times just in case he missed something.

He hadn’t. Just as real panic was starting to set in and Ian thought about night falling in this strange place and _gods what was he going to do,_ someone darted in front of him.

“Hey, uh, you lost or something? You need a hand?”

Ian could have wept. “Yes. _Yes_ , please. I don’t know where I am. I’m trying to get to City Hall? I need to get home and -”

The guy laughed and Ian thought he smiled but he had something covering his mouth - a favour maybe, that someone had given him to keep him warm? “No problem man.” He turned to the left and pointed and Ian instinctively drew closer to see. “City Hall’s right down there, man. You’re not far really. You got money?”

Ian nodded enthusiastically. He had a few coins left in his pockets, and if it wasn’t enough, “My family,” he said. “We’re royalty, back in Andalasia. That’s where I need to get back to -”

“Royalty?” Something glinted in the man’s eye, but Ian didn’t see it hidden behind his sunglasses. “What, you British or something?”

Ian frowned. “I don’t know what that is.”

Ian saw something out of his peripheral vision, something dark coming forward, but the man talking to him drew him in closer. “Well like I said, if you got the money then -”

“Hey asshole! You better put that back unless you want me to ram it down your fuckin’ throat!”

The man jumped away from Ian like he’d been burned and he and Ian turned to see a dark haired man running towards them, scowling up a storm. He was glaring at them, but Ian had no idea what he could want, and his nerves couldn’t take being shouted at again today. He felt something in him thrumming and ready to snap. Whether it was terror or not, he didn’t know. But before Ian could warn him off or ask his new friend if they could leave, he was grabbed from behind with a forearm against his throat and something dull pressing against his back.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” the guy muttered darkly in his hear. “Don’t come any closer, motherfucker! Or I’ll pop this bitch right now.”

Ian didn’t know what any of that meant, but finally today he felt something other than fear. This man had tricked him after Ian had thought he’d finally found someone who would help him just once.

The dark-haired man called back, nearly upon them now. “Yeah I don’t think so.”

But instead of lunging for them, another man came forward from Ian’s left. Ian had completely missed him before. He held a knife glinting in the twilight evening, and Ian felt that thrumming thing snap. He drove his elbow into his assailant’s solar plexus, satisfied at the pained gasp he’d forced out of him. The hold around Ian’s neck relaxed, and Ian grabbed the edges of the guy’s collar and rammed his head into his nose. Ian felt it burst and shoved the man back. He heard grunts and swearing behind him, and before his attacker could rally himself, Ian shoved the heel of his hand upwards against the bridge of his nose, and heard that _snap_ that told him he did it right. The guy dropped to the ground howling and clutching his nose. Ian span back around to deal with the other guy, but saw him on the ground too, his hand at a funny angle from his wrist and the knife he was holding now in the dark-haired man’s hand.

“Ain’t so tough when it’s even numbers now, are you? Fuckin’ pussies.” He kicked the man on the floor as he tried to crawl away. “Get the fuck outta here!”

And they did. The two men scrambled to their feet and ran as fast as they could. Panting, Ian and the dark-haired man turned to each other.

“Hey,” the other one said after a moment. His voice was nice. It was the first nice thing Ian had heard since he’d been here. “Y’okay?”

And that sealed it. The fight drained out of Ian and the shock and stress and fear of the day burst back forth. No. No he was not okay. His breathing came quick and his eyes blurred, but not before he saw a look of complete panic overtake the other man.

Ian coughed trying to stop himself from sobbing, because he was lost and alone and someone had just tried to attack him.

The man rushed forward arms out. “Hey, no! Sorry I - just. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No I’m not!” Ian shouted. But instead of being shocked or appalled like the people back home, this man nodded grimly.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” he said. “Nobody likes a knife being pulled on ‘em. Come on,” he nodded behind him. “There’s a place just there where we can get you cleaned up.” He gestured towards Ian’s hand where he’d broken his attacker’s nose. It was smeared with blood and the sight nearly made Ian nauseous.

Sensing that Ian might be about to freak out again, Mickey rushed to add, “And you can get a real nice tub of ice cream out of it too. C'mon.”

The man could have been another liar or thief or someone out to hurt him, but something in Ian’s gut didn’t think so. He’d tried to comfort Ian. Finally, for the first time in this cursed place, he thought this was someone he could trust, someone who would help him. The thought was enough to almost make him tear up again.

The man brought them to a small building. The windows at the front were large and Ian could see a few people inside. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen before. The tables were made of metal instead of wood. The seats were made of something red. Everyone’s clothes were so strange. The walls were covered in little light up pictures and Ian was so fascinated, Mickey had to tap his elbow to get his attention.

“You just gonna stand there or do you wanna come inside?”

Ian absolutely did not blush, but he hurried after Mickey all the same and finally crossed the doorway.

For a place that advertised something ‘iced’, it was nice and toasty inside and Ian wanted to melt. He’d been so cold all day and it was like his body was only realising it now. His toes throbbed and his fingers were stiff. A tremor racked his body and Ian just wanted to find something to burrow under. But his dark-haired friend was emitting all kinds of body heat. Ian could see the blush of warm blood fill his cheeks. He sidled towards him a little more, and a little more, until he was just shy of touching him. He felt a tiny bit warmer already.

“Over he-” Mickey swivelled round and had to take a big step back to avoid colliding with Ian. “Fuh - don’t do that man,” Mickey chastised.

Ian managed to stutter out an apology and Mickey took pity on him. “Yeah okay. Let’s get you warm. There’s a heater by our table. Fuck knows why since it’s an ice cream joint, but Yev won’t let me sit anywhere else.”

Ian didn’t know who Yev was, but if he was going to be even indirectly responsible for Ian recovering use of his extremities, Ian was going to thank him. Thoroughly. Maybe knight him.

He shuffled after Mickey until he took them to a table with a small boy staring down two ice creams (one and a half, really. He was well on his way to demolishing the bowl in front of him).

When the little boy caught sight of them, he leapt into Ian’s new friend’s arms and hugged him tightly. Ian’s heart warmed and he smiled at them like a fool until the boy caught sight of Ian over his dad’s shoulder.

“It’s you!” He sounded delighted with Ian’s presence and the man set him on the floor. Yev caught Ian’s hand in his own and tugged him towards the table. Mickey watched them closely and slid in next to Ian as Yevy sat opposite them.

“You know me?” Ian asked confused and more than a little bit hopeful.

“No,” he giggled. “I saw you. I saw the bad guys creep up on you and sent daddy to help.”

Mickey’s eyebrows snapped high. “Sent me? Is that how it is?”

The boy nodded and _mhmm’d_ smugly. Turning back to Ian he stuck out one little hand. “I’m Yevgeny. Who are you?”

Ian took the hand and noticed the man was still watching them carefully. Ian didn’t want to misstep and lose the only person to be nice to him on this strange day, so he introduced himself as politely as he ever had in his life. “My name is Ian, Yevgeny. It is such a pleasure to meet you - and your dad.”

“Does um,” Ian hedged, glancing between Yev and his dad. “Does your dad have a name?”

Yev dropped his spoon into his nearly empty bowl with a clatter and glared at Mickey. “Dad! You’re not s’posed to be rude!”

“Who the fuck is rude?” He exclaimed through a mouthful of ice cream and passing Ian some napkins. “Did I or did I not just save his ass?”

But little Yevgeny was not to be swayed. He folded his arms and started at Mickey who managed to hold out for a few valiant moments before admitting defeat.

He sighed and swallowed his ice cream. “Jesus, Yev, I can’t eat when you stare at me like that.” He turned to Ian, peeved and amused. “Name’s Mickey. Clean your hands.”

Mickey. Ian tested it under his breath and sent the man a beaming smile before he set about wiping the blood off his knuckles. “Well, um - thank you, Mickey.”

Mickey shrugged.

“It’s just, I haven’t met a lot of nice people today -”

“Yeah this city is full of assholes. Quicker you learn that, the less disappointed you’ll be.”

Ian blinked at Mickey’s bluntness, but given how his day had went so far, he couldn’t really argue.

“Maybe we can help you?” Yevgeny asked, eyes bright and wide and completely sincere. “Where do you live?”

“Andalasia. Have you heard of it?”

Yev shook his head and Ian deflated. He swung around to Mickey but he only shrugged at him again.

“Oh,” he said sadly. “Well it’s really beautiful. I live there with my family, and I don’t know what happened but the next thing I know – I was just, pushed out!”

Mickey scoffed and shook his hand. “Man, forget ‘em. Most families are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“That’s not it at all!” Ian protested. “They’ll be worried about me. I have to get back.”

“You local? You take a bus here or a train?”

Ian shook his head.

“If you’re on the subway we can get you to the right station -”

“What’s - no I didn’t get here by a subway. I don’t, I don’t know where I am but I don’t think I’m anywhere near home. It doesn’t look – it’s just a very different place.”

Mickey eyed him for a second, and eventually nodded to the window. It was much darker now. “Well I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere too far tonight.”

Ian was devastated. He had to find somewhere to sleep in this place where he didn’t know anybody. He didn’t even know where to begin. He stared glumly at the table until a bowl full of red and yellow goop was pushed in front of him.

Yev sat back when he looked up. “It’s banana and strawberry. It’s my favourite. You want some?”

He brandished a clean spoon at Ian who carefully plucked it out his grasp. Scooping up some of the soft treat, he took a careful mouthful.

Ian’s tongue burst with cold, but it was quickly soothed by sugar and a wonderful creaminess. He groaned from somewhere deep in his belly and realised he was starving. Dimly he heard a light tinkling giggle and a deeper, throaty chuckle, but he was too busy shovelling this beautiful ice cream into his face. Why had he never had anything like this before? It was incredible. It was perfect. It was - freezing his _brain_!

Ian threw the spoon down and clutched his head. “Oh, _god_ , that’s awful!”

Yevgeny laughed louder and Ian felt warm hands wrap around his bicep. “What kind of food hurts you?!”

Mickey pushed the bowl away and pushed Ian until he leaned back, head tipped against the back of the seat.

“Put your tongue on the roof of your mouth, man. It helps.”

Ian was sure he must have looked like an idiot, but he licked the roof of his mouth fervently. He gazed pathetically at Mickey until the feeling ebbed away and sagged against his seat.

Mickey turned back to his own ice cream, satisfied that Ian had stopped freaking out on him again. Ian watched him, broad shoulders hunched over the table, hand firmly gripping the bowl and spoon, throat swallowing down the thick goopy substance. Ian suddenly found he couldn’t look away. He was captivated by this strange, brusque man who’d come to his aid. He was so caught up in his staring, he didn’t know he’d been caught until his eyes finally flicked back to Mickey’s bright blue eyes staring back. A fierce blush flooded Ian’s cheeks but before he could stammer out some meagre excuse, Yevgeny chirped up from his seat.

“Where are you staying?”

“Oh, um, well,” Ian stuttered and felt Mickey watching him. “I’m not sure, exactly. Are there any inns nearby?”

Mickey frowned at him. “The fuck is an inn?”

That would be a no. Ian chewed his lip, worry starting to creep back into his gut. But that sweet voice piped up again, to solve all his problems. “Well that’s okay. You can stay with us!”

Mickey spluttered and coughed into his ice cream but Ian couldn’t have been more delighted. “That would be - oh, wow. That’s so kind thank you -” he turned to Mickey who was thumping his fist against his chest. “Thank you, so much! You don’t know how much of a relief that is.”

Yev smiled happily. “And daddy can help you get home tomorrow.”

With a final hacking cough, Mickey finally cleared his throat. He frantically waved his hands between Ian and Yev, derailing their happy sleepover plans.

“ _Yev._ You can’t just invite people to stay without asking first,” he said sternly. But like some popped a balloon, he watched Ian deflate right before his eyes. The sparkle that had returned to his eyes dimmed, and his smile which was unreasonably wide (who even smiled like that?) fell into lip chewing anxiety. He felt kinda bad. The kid had clearly had a rough night and he seemed nice enough. He certainly _looked_ nice enough because _damn,_ but he was still a stranger and Mickey still lived alone with his son.

Yev tapped his hand to get his attention. “Daddy? Can Ian come for a sleepover?”

 _Goddamnit._ Mickey didn’t want to look at Yevy. It would be his downfall. But the alternative was looking at Ian and Mickey had to admit he was pretty good at the kicked dog look, too. But Ian came to his rescue.

“It’s okay Yev. Your dad has rules and that’s okay. Because rules keep us safe. But um,” he turned to Mickey and lowered his voice. “If you could help me? Just to find somewhere for the night?”

Mickey nodded easily. “Yeah. Of course, man.”

Ian’s smile was back, if not as bright as it was before. Mickey scooped up his last mouthful of ice cream. “How much money you got?”

Ian patted his pocket. “At least 10 gold coins,” he said confidently.

Mickey blinked at him. “What?”

Ian thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of the strangest coins Mickey had ever seen in his life. Yevy leaned forward fascinated, and Micky plucked one from his grasp. On one side there was a relief of a tree, more branches than anything else, and on the other a lion head above a squiggly line Mickey suspected it was a snake. It was cool as fuck, not to put too fine a point on it, but Mickey's belly started to feel uneasy.

“This the currency where you come from?”

Ian nodded. “Mhmm.”

Great. “This all you got?”

“Why? Don’t you think it’ll be enough?”

Mickey could feel Yevy staring beseechingly at him again.

For the fiftieth time that day, Mickey swore under his breath. Yev celebrated instantly, well acquainted with Mickey’s various sounds of defeat.

“Sleepover! Sleepover! Sleepover!”

Ian watched bemused as Mickey huffed and picked up his jacket, throwing a few pieces of paper on the table. Yev battled his own coat from underneath the table where it had fallen.

“C’mon Ian! You get to stay with us!”

He looked between Mickey and Yev. “So I’m invited to the sleepover?”

Yev cheered and Mickey nodded grimly, motioning for Ian to follow. “I warn ya, man,” he said as he opened the door. “The place ain’t the Ritz, but you can stay the night and we can figure all of this out in the morning.”

* * *

Despite living the life of luxury, Ian had slept lots of places outside of the family palace. He’d slept under the stars in open fields, under the leafy canopy of the woods. He’d stayed in that stone tower after his mother died. He’d even stayed in an abandoned cottage when he got caught in the rain once. It was one of the few times he’d actually given into the impulse and the feeling and sang himself a little song. Sure, it had been more melancholy than he’d expected, even from himself, but it had felt good to let it out.

Fiona often worried about Ian’s reluctance to since and dance like the rest of them. _“It’ll make you feel better, Ian,”_ she’d promised. “ _Just let it out, Ian.” “You’re acting funny - have you sang a song today yet, Ian?” “Mom didn’t sing much either - I just want you to be okay, Ian.”_

He loved her, but like hell he was ever going to admit to her she was right.

But of all the places he’d stayed in, none had been like Mickey’s place. Ian’s jaw had dropped when they’d marched up to the tallest building he’d ever seen in his life.

“This is your home?!” he’d asked. Yev erupted into another fit of the giggles and even Mickey laughed at him.

“Not the whole thing, Annie. Fuck that. The heating bill would give me a heart attack.”

Ian was transfixed the whole journey to Mickey’s door. The elevator, as Yev had called it, had been an experience, and Ian had never been inside a building with so many people all living together. Eventually, Mickey opened one of the doors and gestured Ian to wander inside. He trailed after Yev and instantly fell in love with what he saw.

It was so _different_. The walls were light, the windows were big. There were little hallways leading to other parts he couldn’t wait to explore.

“Alright,” Mickey said from behind him. “The grand tour. This is the living room,” he gestured around the room they were in, now. The seats looked deep and comfortable. The table was littered with books and paper. There was a large screen on one of the walls that Ian thought might be a looking glass. “Over there is the kitchen.” Mickey pointed to their right. The two rooms were separated by a big wooden table. The kitchen was full of cupboards and contraptions and Ian liked how you could look right into it from the living room. At home, he had to descend into the bowels of the castle to reach the kitchen at home. Here, you could talk to each other from it. What an idea!

“Round here is the bathroom.” Mickey led them down a little corridor past the kitchen and showed him one of the closed doors on the left. He pushed the door open and Ian peered inside. The walls were white, but everywhere else in the room was exploding with colour. There were toys, stickers, colourful bottles littering every surface. There was a bright yellow curtain and a red rug on the floor. Ian smiled widely. It was so at odds with the man he’d met tonight, that Ian suspected that Yev had a strong hand in decorating this room. 

“Other side -” Mickey pointed back beyond the kitchen and the living room, “ - are the bedrooms. Mine’s first, then Yev’s.”

Yev hopped up excitedly to Ian’s side. “Do you wanna see my room?”

Ian would have loved to, and he opened his mouth to say as much but Mickey cut him off. “ _No_.” And he said it in such a tone that neither Yev nor Ian dared disagree with him.

Mickey stalked off to the kitchen. Yev shuffled his feet and as soon as Mickey rounded the corner, he tugged on Ian’s wrist again.

“Do you wanna see my drawings? They’re in the living room so we won’t get in trouble.”

Yev didn’t bother waiting for an answer but Ian was beaming. He tripped after the boy who tugged him over to the table and dragged him down to kneel on the floor. Despite the chaos of paper and pencils and everything else, Yev quickly unearthed his colourful treasures and thrust them proudly in front of Ian.

“This - this one is Rapunzel. But Rapunzel’s a boy and he’s not allowed outside because bad guys are looking for him,” Yev explained about the first one.

Ian solemnly examined boy-Rapunzel and the leaning tower he lived in. It was built with purple and brown brick and a swarm of frightful big birds flew overhead. They were wider than the tower itself.

“That must be very lonely for him.”

Yev nodded. “And scary. The bad guy finds him,” he showed Ian another three drawings, “and he and his bad guy friends try to break in, but they can’t find the door. And on this one, they try to knock it down but the tower is too strong. And in this one, they decide to burn it down, but then the Prince comes -” Ian’s gasps dramatically - “And he fights off the bad guys. And Rapunzel helps! Because we’re never ever helpless, daddy says. And he throws things out the window at them to knock ‘em out.”

Ian spreads the drawings out in front of him. “These are wonderful. Does Rapunzel escape the tower after the Prince defeated the villains?”

Yev shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “I don’t know. I haven’t drawed that part yet.”

“You have to!” Ian encouraged him. “Every good story teller has to finish their story. And you’re a _very_ good storyteller, Yevgeny.”

The boy blushed and a throat cleared beside them. Ian turned and saw Mickey standing with a glass and a look he couldn’t interpret.

“Here,” he set the glass down in front of Ian. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

“Dad! I showed Ian my drawings. He said they’re really good!”

“I heard,” Mickey said. “Go brush your teeth. It’s past your bedtime and you got school tomorrow.”

“But dad -”

Mickey didn’t even have to say anything. He cocked his eyebrow in that way that let Yev know he wasn’t playing. With a herculean effort the little boy dragged himself to his feet.

Mickey called after him down the hall. “You’re sleeping in my room tonight, Yev!” He turned to Ian. “You can have the kid’s room. Right at the end of the hall.”

Taking that as his cue, Ian got to his feet. Halfway across the living room he looked back at Mickey, who was still watching him. Ian smiled softly. He’d snipped at Ian half a dozen times by now. He was clearly uncomfortable having him near his son, but despite all of that he was the only person to show Ian unfailing kindness. How did you thank someone for that?

“Mickey?”

Mickey continued to stare.

“Thank you. You have no idea - just… thank you.”

Something in Mickey’s face softened, and Ian decided he quite liked it. With a parting smile, Ian loped off to bed.

Mickey was left staring after him, until Yev bounded back from the bathroom and crashed right on into him. Mickey was jolted back into time and place and carefully righted his son before he could fall over.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to watch where your walking, hmm?” It was said softly, with a reassuring rub on the back of his head.

“Aren’t you sleepy dad?” Yev asked confused.

“Yeah. Yeah kid, let’s go.”

Yev slept in one of Mickey’s old t-shirts as neither of them had thought to get pajamas out of Yev’s room before sending Ian to bed. The excitement of the day had clearly knocked it out of Yevgeny. The boy who tried to wheedle at least three bedtime stories out of him every night, was out before Mickey even got into bed. Despite all assurances to his son to the contrary, Mickey wasn’t tired at all and barely caught a wink of sleep. If he finally drifted off at some ungodly time in the morning staring at the wall that separated his and Yev’s room, then nobody had to know but him.


	5. Chapter 5

On normal weekdays, Mickey was woken up by a screaming alarm clock. He was allowed to hit the snooze button twice before he had to wake up Yevgeny. He’d shake him, then five minutes later he’d tickle his feet, then five minutes after that he’d be pulling the little fucker outta bed by the ankles.

But today was not a normal day. Mickey wasn’t woken up by his demon alarm clock. Instead, his demon son ran through into his room and jumped on his bed screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Come and see! Wake up, you have to see!”

Mickey bolted upright. For a second - just a split of one - some deep forgotten reflex had Mickey reaching under his pillow for a gun that wasn’t there. But then his brain registered Yev’s excitement and let himself be pulled to his feet and dragged from bed into the living room.

Ian stood in the middle of the living room, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The place was immaculate. Not a thing out of place. Books were back on their shelves. Yev’s many, many masterpieces were stowed somewhere safely out of sight. Cushions were fluffed and surfaces dusted, and Mickey had no idea when his son had become such a fan of order and neatness to get so excited over a tidy apartment.

Later, Mickey would grumble over how long it took him, but eventually he noticed that Yev _wasn’t_ gushing over the freshly vacuumed rug, and Ian wasn’t looking proudly at his handiwork. No, their attentions were both firmly fixed on a collective of rats, mice, _and was that a fuckin’ raccoon?_ All standing in his living room.

Maybe Mickey was still asleep. He thought he might be. Because there was no fuckin’ way that Ian was talking to a bunch of rodents in his apartment, and they were staring back at him. Like they were paying attention. No fuckin’ way.

But then Yev reached out to pet a rat and before he could get within a whisker’s distance, he was yanked back and his little butt fell onto the sofa.

“Get the fuck outta here!” Mickey waved his arms and shouted loudly. He advanced on the animals and they scattered.

“Yev, open some windows!”

“But dad they -”

“Oh dear,” he heard Ian murmur in the background.

“Open it! Now! And get the door!”

Mickey snatched the towel that had been folded over Ian’s shoulder and flapped it at the raccoon who was chittering back at him. If Mickey didn’t know any better he’d say it was giving him attitude.

“Move your ass or I’ll turn you into a hat! Get!” He snapped the towel and it took off out the door.

Panting he turned to find Yev glaring at him and Ian looking very sorry indeed.

Mickey gestured around the room. “What - _what?_ ”

Ian bit his lip. “I just wanted to tidy up a little. You know, to say thank you?”

“And that meant playin’ Doctor Doolittle?!”

Ian shook his head. “Who’s Doctor Doolittle?”

Before Mickey could unleash hell, Yev put his hands on his hips and got all up in Mickey’s space. “Ian was just trying to help. And he’s good with animals.”

And that was all Yev needed to know about a person, apparently, and most of the time Mickey loved that naivety. Faced with Yev’s disapproval and Ian’s obviously guilt, he didn’t stand a chance. He let out a purging sigh and waved them both off.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.”

But Ian wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? I really didn’t -”

“No man,” Mickey reassured him. “The place looks good. Really. Thanks.”

Ian gave him that same smile he gave Mickey last night before he went to bed. It disturbed him as much now as it did then and Mickey couldn’t look at him for too long.

“Hey, uh,” he scratched his nose. “You need a shower or something, to clean up?”

Ian’s shoulders sagged in relief and he groaned deeply. Mickey was starting to think his plan had backfired if he was gonna sound like that. “That sounds perfect. Yes, please. Jeez, I must stink.”

 _Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up._ “Nah, you smell good.”

Mickey hated himself.

Ian gave a crooked smile and Mickey noticed the way one side of his jaw jutted out farther than the other and Mickey had some thoughts on that. Thoughts that he really didn’t need as he led him away from Yev and into the relative privacy of the bathroom.

Mickey got the shower running and Ian watched in astonishment. As he stepped back, Ian shoved his head around the shower curtain and his face came back misted and grinning.

Fuck this guy was good looking. Mickey coughed and folded his arms. “Just give it a minute. It takes a while for the temperature to settle and you’ll get burned _then_ freeze your ass off. Towels are there,” Mickey pointed at the wooden shelves at the back of the bathroom and executed a hasty retreat.

Mickey hadn’t been bent all out of shape about a guy in a long time. He’d never let himself get too invested. Even when he started up with Tony, Mickey was happy just to live and let live and didn’t feel any need to push the boundaries of their relationship.

But this guy, this Ian. He was a stranger. He talked funny. He was just the happiest motherfucker. Mickey shouldn’t be thinking about the cut of his jaw, or how his hair looked curlier than it did last night. Fuck, he let him _sleep_ here under the same roof as his son. But something about Ian put Mickey at ease. He sure as shit was no thief when he couldn’t even tell he was being cased in the street yesterday.

Nah, Mickey was pretty confident as he munched on his second pop tart and Yev faithfully laid one out for Ian, that he was a pretty harmless dude. He’d take Ian to work with him and help him get to where he had to. Angie knew more places around here and had a better chance than he did of knowing how to get Ian back to where he came from.

After and Yev finished their breakfast, Mickey thought he’d better check on Ian. They had to split soon to get Yev to school and Mickey couldn’t vouch for Ian’s pop tart if he left it there any longer.

Mickey grabbed him some clean clothes and knocked on the bathroom door. He couldn’t hear anything - not the shower or Ian moving around, so he opened the door, thinking Ian had managed to slip back to Yev’s room without him noticing.

He hadn’t slipped back to Yev’s room.

The door opened to Ian standing in the middle of the tub, shower dripping and curtain pulled back. Ian had reached for a towel and was just securing it around his waist as Mickey gaped at him.

Ian swept his wet hair off his forehead and stepped out of the tub and Mickey stared dumbly. Mickey’s towels were well used. He wasn’t one to buy new things unless he absolutely had to - usually when Yev forced him. So although it came to just above Ian’s knees, there’s was still a whole lot of fodder there for Mickey’s imagination. The towel clung to what looked like very strong thighs. The water glittered - honestly glittered - and he was staring at a stupidly perfectly body spattered with light and freckles and Jesus god _damn_ are you fucking _kidding?_

Mickey didn’t even have time to shut his mouth before Ian was upon him.

“I feel amazing! It was like being in the rain, Mickey -”

In his panic, Mickey thrust the clothes he’d brought at Ian like some sort of sacrifice. Distracted by the offering, Ian didn’t noticed the wrinkled rug under his feet until his legs gave out from under him and he was careening into Mickey and his armful of clothes.

They went down together in a heap. Mickey’s elbows clacked painfully against the wooden floor and his breath was pushed out by the solid weight of Ian thumping on top of him. Ian got his breath back quicker, and hellfire and brimstone he was shaking with giggles on top of Mickey. Ian pushed himself up on his palms, and if Mickey didn’t get his breath back soon he was going to die. But death might just be on the cards with Ian’s face right up in his, water dripping down onto Mickey, and nothing but Ian’s towel between them.

Ian couldn’t hold back his laughter at Mickey’s wide eyes and the thrill of falling. After all the stress of yesterday it felt insanely good to be able to laugh again. Ian thought Mickey was hilarious, and grumpy and awkward and just wonderful.

It certainly didn’t hurt that he was beautiful.

And as his laughter petered away, Ian was struck with that swelling warm feeling in his chest that he’d never felt at home. Not once with Trevor, as sweet as he was. It settled heavy and comforting over him, and really, Ian could have laid there all day and had half a mind to because all thoughts of Andalasia and the terror of yesterday had vanished and _what else did they have to do today?_

But Ian didn’t have time to find that out. Just as he’d resolved that yes, _this_ was where he’d like to spend his day, a strange voice cut through his happy haze.

“Are you serious?!”

Ian and Mickey looked at the intruder and then Mickey was pushing Ian off him and Ian only barely remembered to secure his towel.

“Tony,” Mickey said surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Armed with a name, Ian happily strode forward, eager to meet a friend of Mickey’s. “Hi Tony!” He said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

But Tony didn’t look like it was a nice thing at all. He sneered at Ian and looked between him and Mickey angrily. “Who the hell is this?”

“I’m Ian! Ian Gallagher.”

But Tony ignored his and his outstretched hand. “Did you just forget that we were supposed to take Yev to school together this morning?” he said to Mickey.

Mickey huffed from beside Ian. “Shit. Yeah,” he scrubbed his hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Yeah, I forgot.”

“Oh, my ass, Mickey! Really?”

Ian didn’t know who Tony was to Mickey, but he didn’t like his tone. Not when Mickey and Yev had been so kind to him yesterday. He shouldn’t butt in. He _shouldn’t_. But he was sure as hell gonna. “Hold on a second,” he frowned at this _Tony_. “Yesterday was, well, a hell of a day -”

“Oh, I bet it was.”

“And _Mickey_ -” Ian talked louder, “Helped me out of a really tough spot and gave me a place to sleep. I think he’s entitled to forget a little, huh?”

But Tony ignored him _again_. “We agreed,” he muttered darkly at Mickey. “You said you wanted to keep this,” he gestured between them, “Separate from Yevgeny. No staying the night or anything. And I agreed. And now I find out it was just some cock and bull story so you could fuck around behind my back.”

But Mickey wasn’t one to be chastised. He owed Tony a lot, but he didn't belong to him like some bitch. Besides, he felt a flush of guilt creep up his spine and it sent his defence mechanisms into overdrive. He puffed his chest up and got in Tony’s space, and Yev gently tugged a very reluctant Ian back a little.

“Who’s fuckin’ around?” Mickey pushed. “You think we’re boyfriend, girlfriend, here? You don't get to tell me what to do or who I can see. I don’t gotta explain shit to you, so get the fuck off my dick.”

Ian agreed with that sentiment wholeheartedly. What a brilliant expression. Why didn’t people talk more like this at home? “Yeah - get off it,” he chimed in support of Mickey.

Not wanting to be left out, Yev joined in with a rousing “Yeah!” He and Ian nodded at each other in solidarity.

“So, this is it huh,” Tony shrugged. “You couldn’t just tell me you didn’t wanna hang out anymore? You had to stage this whole set up and humiliate me?”

“I'm not trying to do anything," Mickey bit, frustrated. "Believe what you wanna believe, but I didn’t stage shit."

Tony shook his head. “I should’ve known better getting involved with you. Once a Milkovich always a Milkovich, right?”

Ian didn’t know what a Milkovich was, but he didn’t like the way Mickey’s body tensed and the angry clench to Yev’s little fists.

“You’re just like the rest of them. A no good, using piece of shit.”

The apartment was silent, just for a second as Mickey stared and Yev seethed. Yet it wasn’t broken by either of them. Indignant and outraged, Ian pushed past Mickey and shoved Tony hard in the chest. Tony barely caught himself from falling on his ass.

“Who do you think you are? Mickey is the nicest, kindest person in this hell hole of a city.” Ian shoved Tony again and his righteous indignation proved too much for Mickey’s substandard towels. It fell away and Ian barely even noticed and Mickey had to figure out how to cover Yev’s ears and eyes at the same time.

But Christ that ass was carved from marble. For fuck _sake._

“You don’t get to come in here and say _shit_ about him!” Ian yelled, and Tony tried to block him this time but Ian was too focused and too angry, and he caught Tony’s shoulders and pushed him stumbling into the front door. Ian lowered his voice and warned him, quiet. “Get out, before I throw you out.”

With a dark look at both of them, Tony stormed out the door, slamming it behind him.

Ian released a shaky breath. The snap of the door had snapped him back to his senses and oh god, he’d _thrown_ Mickey’s friend out of his own house. He was an awful, horrible person. The dread and resignation boiled up his belly as he turned around slowly to face the music. Except Mickey didn’t look angry - he wasn’t looking at Ian at all. He stood with one arm wrapped around Yev’s head covering his yes, and one hand pressed against Yev’s ears and pressing his head into Mickey’s belly.

“Uh, Ian,” Mickey stammered out. “You uh, might wanna cover up Big Red there, huh?”

He was naked. When did he lose the towel? Oh god and in front of Yevgeny, too. Face burning with shame Ian lurched for his towel and wrapped it tightly around his waist. He sidled behind the sofa for extra measure and Mickey finally released Yev who scrambled grinning onto the sofa and hugged Ian tightly.

But Ian was too distraught to celebrate with him. He gazed sorrowfully at Mickey. “I’m _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean to - I know I had no right. I can just go. I’ll get my clothes and go.”

But Yev didn’t let him go and Mickey was frowning at him. “Sorry for what? Jackass had it coming, talking to me like that.”

“But - but, I threw out your friend?”

“Boyfriend,” Yev corrected gently.

Ian’s heart stopped. “Boyfriend?” he said faintly. Oh, this was worse than bad. Here Ian was getting caught up in some romantic nonsense and Mickey had already found his one true love. Of course he had. How could someone like him not?

Yev released him and he collapsed onto the arm of the sofa. He buried his head in his hands. “Oh no. Oh, no. Oh no, oh no.”

Yev stood up on the sofa behind him and put his arms back around his neck. “What’s the matter, Ian?”

“I can go get him back!” Ian pledged. “I’ll explain everything. That it was all a big misunderstanding. Oh you must hate me. I can’t get anything right here!”

“Woah, woah,” Mickey peeled Yev off Ian and set him on the floor. “Why the fuck would I want him back?”

Yev’s face screwed up at the idea “No thanks.” Mickey clipped his ear.

“But - he’s your true love, right?”

Yev groaned and Mickey sighed. “Not you, too, Christ - _no_.”

“No way!” Yev said happily.

“He’s not?”

Mickey smiled at him. “Not a fuckin’ chance. So no harm no foul, right?”

And so it was with a big sigh of relief and a watery smile that Ian finally got to eat his pop tart (and boy was that an experience. He’d have to ask Mickey for the recipe), and got dressed so they could take Yev to school and Mickey could go to work. Mickey promised Ian he’d help him get, but Ian didn’t mind so much. He liked Mickey and Yev, and this big strange city wasn’t so scary when they were together.

* * *

Lip was a shit. Karen had always known it. But she hoped his general shittery would take a back seat to his brother’s safety. But, instead of confronting the Queen and finding out exactly where shed sent Ian and why, Lip had ordered the kingdom searched from top to bottom. It had taken the whole day and the whole night, until eventually the last patrol who had turned over the very last stone had come back and reported nothing.

A whole shitload of nothing.

Karen fluttered furiously in the throne room where the family was gathered. She almost felt bad for the rest of them. Debbie was crying silent tears and Carl was pressed into her side, seething but solid. Fiona stared at nothing and Liam was fussing far more than usual. But if Lip had just _listened_ to her, they could have Ian back by now.

But no. Because he was a _shit_.

A sharp bang startled the morose gathering and Queen Ingrid came storming in.

“The guards found nothing?” Her voice echoed in the silent throne room.

Fiona shook her head.

The Queen stood in the middle of them all. “I promise you all this” she said announced to the room. “We will not stop until we found him. This kingdom won’t rest until he is safe. And if so much as a single hair is out of place on his head, I give you my word, we will have vengeance.”

She swept from the room, robes billowing behind her and if she thought she could get away with it, Karen would have dropped one right on that shiny crown.

“You guys aren’t buying that crock are you?” She demanded at the exhausted Gallaghers plus Trevor

Lip swore. “Not now Karen, alright. We have to figure out what do to.”

“I know exactly what to do! Drag the Queen back here and -”

“I said not now, Karen!” Lip shouted ad spit flew from his lips. Karen fell silent but flew so close to Lip she could have clipped him if she wanted to.

“Fine. Be that way. Be that s _tupid_. But at least I care about Ian enough to do whatever I need to, to get him back.”

Trevor piped up for the first time that morning. He’d been silent ever since Ian had gone missing. “Well I love Ian, too,” he insisted. “And I can’t sit here anymore waiting for something to happen. I’m going out to look for him.”

Fiona sighed. “We’ve looked everywhere, Trevor. We haven’t found anything.”

“Then we missed something,” he insisted. “I’ll go. You all need some sleep. I’ll send word if I find anything.” And without waiting for an answer, Trevor hurried out of the room.

He wasn’t her first choice, but if he was doing something, then Karen would help him. She beat her wings and flew off after him.

“Trevor wait for me - I’m coming!”

She caught up to him easily. “What’s the plan?”

“Search high and low until I find him. I won’t rest. I won’t stop -”

“Yeah sounds great,” she interrupted him. “But you don’t have to do that. I know where Ian went missing.”

Trevor stopped short. “You what? Why didn’t you - do the Gallaghers know?!”

“Lip does but he’s an asshole. Are you coming or not?”

She took off and Trevor huffed and chased after her. If the Gallaghers wouldn’t help her, she’d have to get Ian back on her own.

* * *

Ingrid paced in her chambers. Getting rid of Ian had been the extent of her plan. A reaction to an immediate problem. What she hadn’t expected was the affect it would have on the rest of the Gallagher Royal Family. It was like the wind had been taken from their sails, the heat from their flame. At first they had been a flurry of activity, drive and burning determination to recover their brother. Ingrid could admit to herself that she’d felt a small flicker of worry. But she’d covered her tracks. She’d put a glamour on the trail to the well. Only someone who’d been there before could find it and lead others to it. But with every failed search party, she’d watched the princes and princesses wilt. It was like losing one of them, just one of them, had fractured the whole family.

And it had sparked and awful, wonderful idea within Ingrid.

Why stop at just Ian? They all posed a threat to her crown. Whichever of them married would be crowned and she would be cast aside. And now was the perfect time to strike. Now whilst they were grieving the loss of their brother and couldn’t even possibly think about romance or marriage or other such ridiculous things.

Carl was a soldier. With tensions rising between Andalasia and their neighbours because of Frank’s negligence and disrespect, it was only a matter of time before that resulted in war. It wouldn’t be so strange if Carl made the ultimate sacrifice on the battlefield. Tragic, but not strange.

Debbie and Carl were practically twins, so she wouldn’t be able to take the grief and people would swear they saw her fading away day by day until finally - _poof_. She was gone. With less siblings to protect him, some bandits would easily take advantage and kidnap baby Liam. Fiona wouldn’t be able to take that, not at all. She’d go out looking for him, and she’d fall victim to them too.

The it would just be Lip, left all alone with nothing but a drunk King Frank for company. She’d offer, so kindly, to take on the burden of ruling the kingdom just for a little while. Lip could go on some travels, see the word a little like he’d always wanted to. The people would just think the kingdom had too many reminders of his lost family, and chose to never return. Ingrid would make sure that he didn’t. Then when Frank finally died in his grief, Queen Ingrid would be the sole ruler of Andalasia.

Then everything would be perfect.

* * *

Karen hadn’t struggled to find the path. The way was burned into her memory. Trevor got lost and turned around a bunch of times, until she had to keep him close to her.

Once they’d found the trail, the brush had nearly grown over it - an unusual amount for a day’s growth and Karen just knew the Queen was trying to hide her tracks. She and Trevor fought through it. She had to take breaks perched on his shoulder and directing him, and Trevor was panting and pouring with sweat. Until eventually, at last, the growth thinned and the two of them stumbled into the clearing with the crumbling well before them.

“Is this it?” Trevor whispered.

Karen just couldn’t with this kid. “It doesn’t have ears Trevor. And yes, that’s it. Ian sat right there and Queen Ingrid disguised as a little boy pushed him in.”

“I still can’t believe -”

“Well believe it!” she snapped. “How else could he stay so well hidden?”

Trevor had to admit that did make a lot of sense. Together, they approached the well. Karen sat on the lip and they both peered over the edge.

The dappled sunlight in the clearing didn’t penetrate down the well. The swirling colours from before were gone and it looked black and cold. They could see their breaths misting in front of them. 

“What do we do?”

Karen levelled him with a look. “You know what we have to do.”

Trevor looked grim but resigned. He clambered up onto the lip of the well, took a deep breath. “Wish me luck,” he said before jumping foot first own the well. There was a burst of light and Karen shielded her eyes with her wing.

She didn’t hesitate for a moment before she plunged herself into the depths of the well after him.

* * *

"Hi! I'm single. Who the fuck are you?"

0.2 seconds and Angie couldn't even keep her pants on that long. Ian chuckled next to him, charmed and terrified in equal measure, the poor bastard.

"Angie, Ian" he introduced them. “Ian this is Angie, the biggest pain in the ass in New York. Total sexual predator, so, you know, watch your ass."

“Fuck you, Mouse'" Angie barked at him. Then sweet as sugar she turned batting her lashes at Ian. "Nice to meet you, Ian. What are you doing hanging around with this old grumpy bastard?”

Unlike Tony's vitriol from earlier this morning, Ian heard the fondness in Angie’s voice, so he smiled back and clasped her hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Miss Angie."

Instead of sighing demurely and tittering like the ladies back home, Angie threw her head back and cackled. Her lips were cracked, lines spread across her face as the skin stretched. Her mouth opened so wide he could see the ridges on the roof of it. It was so real, Ian felt warmth bloom deep in his belly.

“Seriously?! Mickey, he for real?"

Mickey trotted back to them and looked at Ian with a glint in his eye. "Jury’s still out.” He elbowed Angie in the rib. “Listen, when you're done trying to climb Sasquatch, here, think you could do us a favour?”

"What is it?".

“Help me hide a body. What do you think? Shut the fuck up. Ian’s gotta get home. To fuck knows where. Where is it?” He clicked his fingers at Ian.

"Andalasia," he said brightly

"Andalusa."

"- _asia_.”

"And you know the lay of the land in this city better than I do."

Angie dropped her scowl and turned to Ian with eyes full of sympathy. “You a stray, huh? Gotta return you to your owners?"

"If you'd be so kind," Ian smiled patiently.

She slapped his cheek softly and Ian’s skin thrummed at the easy intimacy.

"Leave it to me, handsome. Head on back with Mickey.”

Mickey waved him over to a table covered with colourful drawings and a large, black leather seat laid out in front of it. Mickey himself perched on a stool as Ian plucked his way through the drawings. He hummed appreciatively.

"Hmm. So you're where Yevgeny gets it?"

Mickey scoffed. "Nah, man. I didn't learn this shit until I started here. Yev's been drawing since he could make a fist."

"Still pretty." Ian gave Mickey that devastating smile with that fucking jawline and fiercely ignored the heat in his face.

"Is that what you do here? Draw pictures for people?”

Mickey stared at Ian and looked around the room expectantly. “Do you not know what a tattoo is?"

Ian frowned and shook his head and Mickey was kind of desperate to know where this kid came from now because was it fucking _mars?_

He shook it off a patted the stool next to him. "Yeah, well. You're about to find out."

And boy, did he. Ian spent the better part of the morning gawking, flinching, _oohing_ and admiring as Mickey steadily worked through his clients. When Ian first clicked that Mickey drew pictures onto people's _skin_ with _needles_ he'd had to sit down. Thinking quick, Mickey had explained away the odd and off-putting noise Ian had been making. “Buddy of mine. He's got a huge phobia of needles. I'm helping him get over it.” It soothed any alarmed customers and by the end of the session, Ian always gushed over the patterns, colours, and details; raptures that left both Mickey and the clients feeling flush and flustered.

The only hiccup had been when Ian unearthed the sketch of a lily pad Mickey had given just yesterday as he flicked through Mickey’s sketchbook.

"Not bad, Mickey," he’d smiled teasingly. “I didn't take you for a flowers guy.”

Mickey scoffed as he cleaned up his station. "First of all, lillies are bad ass, fuck you very much. Second of all, that shit ain’t mine. I just tightened up a drawing from a client. Guy was a dumbass. He tried to get some bitches name tattooed in him.”

Ian frowned and set Mickey's sketchbook down carefully. "What’s wrong with names?"

"What's right with 'em? At some point or another, that asshole is going to bail on her, or he’s the asshole and he’s the one who bails. Or no one does and they’re just stuck together bitter and sad. You really wanna stamp a reminder of that shit show on your arm to look at every damn day for the rest of your life?”

Ian felt like he'd been slapped. Mickey’s words were sharp and awful and they grabbed on to something inside of Ian and twisted. He thought of Trevor, who everyone said - who _was_ his one true love. He thought of branding himself like cattle with Trevor's name, staring at it day, after day, after day…

He thought of Frank and Monica. Soulmates. They'd been deliriously happy together, but that had meant arguments and challenging each other and the brutally bleak shell of Frank being left behind after Monica’s death. He thought of Fiona who always fell for the wrong guy and got her heart broken over and over. He thought of Lip who loved lots of girls and loved no girls.

His voice was breathy and wet when he found it again. “Is that what relationships are like?”

Mickey looked up from the papers he was organising. Ian’s eyes were glistening and his face looked distraught. Mickey had never backpedalled so quickly in his life.

“Hey, no, don't do that," he said. His hands fluttered uselessly over Ian’s lap. “I shouldn’t have – that’s my shit, alright? I don’t have the best experience of relationships. I shouldn’t have put that on you. Just forget it, yeah?”

But he hadn’t, Ian thought ruefully. The thought of Trevor’s tattoo on his skin made it crawl. Mickey’s diatribe had put words to that squirmy feeling in his belly whenever he looked at Trevor. He didn’t _want_ to be tied to him forever. He didn’t _want_ to become bitter and sad. Trevor wasn’t an asshole. Far from it, he was the sweetest guy in the kingdom. But Ian didn’t want sweet. _Ian_ was the asshole –

"Ian," Mickey spoke it so softly. "Seriously. Don't pay attention to any of the shit I say. I run my mouth like I get paid for it.”

Ian collected himself. He gave Mickey a wan smile and nodded. "Sorry," he apologised. "I swear I'm not normally like this. I can, goddamn count the amount of times I've cried in my life in one hand, it’s just been…”

Mickey nodded. "A lot?"

Ian huffed but before he could say anything, Angie called for him across the shop.

"Mick? C’mere a sec, would ya?”

Mickey patted Ian's knee and left him there testing that name on his tongue. _Mick_. He liked it.

Mickey didn't like the look on Angie’s face. When he got reached the desk she pulled him close so she could mutter into his ear.

"It is not good," she murmured. "I can't find where he's from."

Mickey rolled his eyes. "He's probably from outta town, Angie. Christ, use your brain, shit.”

“Angie's nails dug into his forearm. "You're not listening you idiot. He's not from outta town or anywhere else in New York, and I googled my ass off. There is nowhere called Andalasia in the Continental US.”

She pulled him closer. “I don’t know what the deal is between the two of you, but either he’s lying to you, or something’s wrong Mickey. Something ain’t right with that kid.”

* * *

Anschel was tired. His back ached. His eyes were full of grit. His ears rang with the bellyaching of his workers, and his heart had been a little heavy ever since yesterday. Whilst his crew jeered and made jokes about “mole people” and subcultures beneath the belly of the city, Anschel nursed a worry about the young man, Ian, who they’d pulled out from the ground. He’d run off scared half outta his mind, and God knows New York was not a friendly city to anyone having a rough day. Anschel tossed and turned that night until Ahava booted him right out of the bed and told him to go wriggle on the couch instead.

So to top it off, his back was all knots and kinks and he was really going to have to call the police and ask if there was anything about a missing red-haired young man, just to try and get some damn sleep. Besides, no kid deserved to be left and forgotten about.

Just as Anschel was ready to finish for the day and give the crew the signal to wrap up they were dying for, the manhole cover clanged and was shoved violently open. A curly-haired man clambered out, and unlike Ian who’d been confused and distressed, this man emerged with a single minded determination that Anschel watched with curiosity.

The crew gaped at the hole and the man. Johnny, his best driller, threw his tools down muttering about conspiracies and vacations, and Anschel couldn’t really argue with him about that.

Before anyone could approach the guy, check him over, _help_ him, he had handfuls of Anschel’s shoulders and shook.

“You! Where is he?!”

Anschel’s brain was still catching up but his crew forcefully objected to the kid manhandling him. They descended on him in a New York minute, but the wily kid held fast.

“Did you do it? So help me if you hurt him –“

A shrill squeaking smothered whatever threats were being rained down on Anschel now. Something fuzzy and yellow barrelled out of the manhole and into the sky. It wasn’t until it flapped it’s way over to the kid that Anschel saw it was a bat. His crew dropped the kid like he was on fire and scattered as far from the beating wings as possible.

The kid recovered first. “You guard this doorway. You must have seen him!”

“ _Who?_ For God’s sake!”

“Ian! My love, my song, my heart! Where is he?”

Anschel’s heart skipped a beat. “The red head? Tall, freckled kid?”

The bat squeaked and the kid _aha’d_ victoriously and Anschel was going to write a hell of a letter to the Mayor about the misuse of the New York underground.

Anschel finally pried the kid’s hands off him. “We found him yesterday. Poor guy was terrified so like hell am I going to tell you where he is. For all I know, you’re what he’s running from!”

The kid gasped and tried to shake Anschel down again. Anschel’s gentle nature was teetering, but the bat grabbed a clawful of the kid’s collar and dragged him away.

“I should report you to animal protection!” Anschel shouted after them. “A bat’s a wild animal! And it’s supposed to be asleep!”

Anschel kicked the manhole cover and his crew rushed to place it back over the hole. This stuff was going to haunt him in his sleep. They were going to need a new couch. 

* * *

Trevor thrashed out of Karen’s grip with a huff. “What did you do that for? He knew something! He saw Ian!”

“And you were about to get a punch in the mouth,” Karen scowled, furious at Trevor and how that had played out. They’d lost a lead, and they had to figure out their next move fast. “He ran, Trevor. That’s what they said. He ran, and we have no idea where he ran _to_. I mean, have you ever seen anything like this place?”

They looked around. Swarms of people flooded the roads like flies over rotted fruit. Giant buildings rose into the sky and cast them all in a dusky shadow. The roads were full of screaming, smoking vehicles. It was overwhelming and Karen and Trevor were hit for the first time with how daunting the task before them was. How were they going to find Ian in _this?_

“What are we going to do now?" Trevor asked in a small voice.

“We can’t do this alone,” she admitted grudgingly. “We need to get some eyes and ears.”

Flapping her wings and earning a few squeals from people who’d walked too close, Karen took to the skies. She flew after birds, most of whom thought she was trying to eat them. She bothered the rats scurrying up metal staircases on the side of buildings. She corralled little squirrels, but none of them remembered seeing anyone who looked like Ian. But she’d gotten then to promise to get the word out if, _when_ Ian returned back here to try and make his way back home. It was a start at least. She picked her way back to Trevor when she was beckoned by two horses neighing.

“You’re looking for a human, yes?” They stood strapped to a carriage and Karen wasted no time fluttering over and perching on a muscled rump. The horse flicked his tail, narrowly missing her head.

“What do you know?” She hissed impatiently. The horse flicked his tail again and Karen was giving him ten seconds before she started biting.

“A boy asked us for help just yesterday. A lovely boy, terribly frightened. Absolutely desperate to get home.”

The other horse huffed, amused. “He thought we were carrying royalty!”

 _Jackpot_. Relief spread through Karen’s breast. “Where did he go?” she demanded.

“We sent him to City Hall,” one said “Seemed like the best idea to get the poor foal some help.”

Trevor had spotted her and fought his way through the crowds to reach her.

“These guys saw Ian," she caught him up before he could speak.

But in true Trevor fashion, he dove in feet first. “I’ll handle it. It’s been a while since I spoke horse but let’s give this a try.” He cleared his throat and started to bray and whinny and neigh in a truly alarming series of sounds. Karen looked horrified as he spewed misguided horse-ish.

“Who do you think you are?!”

“My mother is a _what?!”_

“Yeah? Well welcome to New York, pal!”

Karen was upended as the horses reared up and kicked out at Trevor. She heard the idiot scream and saw him cower out of the corner of her eyes. As if his stupid squishy body would protect him.

“Run ya moron!” She and Trevor took off, and Karen resolved then and there to ditch him. He’d lost them their second lead on Ian and like hell she was going to lose her best friend to any stupid romantic chivalry.

* * *

“ _Oh._ Oh my, _Mick_.”

Ian Gallagher had never put something so delicious in his mouth before. Mickey’s face flushed with heat as he watched Ian go to town on a shitty little hot dog with fervour. That was it. Of course that was it. That was why Angie couldn’t find Andawhatsit. Because this guy had been sent to him from another world to _kill_ him. _God_.

He covered his blushes with gruff and bluster. “Don’t choke on it, pig.”

But Ian just side-eyed him. “It’d be worth it. I’ll just die right here with my food.”

“Fuck it, want me to leave you two alone? Give you a minute?”

Ian laughed and played it off, but the way his hands grabbed Mickey’s arm was no joke and Mickey softened like an idiot. Like hell he’d leave the guy alone to the mercy of this fuckin’ city. He thrust his second dog at Ian. “Knock yourself out. I don’t want you chewin’ on my arm or somethin’.”

Ian took it gratefully but instead of ripping the foil open like he did with the last two, he fiddled with it, childlike. Mickey gave him a minute to shore up whatever courage he needed to.

“What you said, back at your place…”

“Parlour,” Mickey corrected. “And it ain’t mine.”

“Parlour. You said some things. Did you mean them?”

So they were going to do the full Oprah right here in the street, huh? Mickey took a drink of water to buy himself some time but nodded all the same.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I meant it. That true love shit ain’t for me, man.”

Ian watched him carefully. “Yevy thinks it is.”

“Yev is a kid,” Mickey huffed. “He’s allowed to believe in that stuff because he’s a _kid_.”

“Didn’t you when you were a kid?”

“Fuck no! Christ are you insane? I woulda been –“ but Mickey caught himself just in time. No matter how much Mickey liked Ian, he wasn’t offloading that shit onto anyone.

“Look,” he said calmly. “It’s just, in my experience all that love crap is just an excuse to beat people down, fuck around, and put ‘em through a whole bunch of shit that they have to put up with because of what? A priest said some words wearing that stupid little collar? Love don’t cause nothin’ but trouble, at least that I ever saw.”

Mickey could’ve cursed himself for getting all worked up again, but Ian wasn’t freaking out this time. He pushed the solid weight of his arm against Mickey’s and god was it steadying. Mickey breathed it in.

“That’s shitty,” Ian murmured. "M’sorry.”

Mickey shrugged off Ian’s sympathy. “Don’t worry about it. Listen,” he grabbed for a change in subject and Ian let it go with a smile. “You got anything else you can tell me about where you’re from? What part of the country it’s in? Only Angie is having a hell of a time trying to find it and it’s –“

“There!” Ian lunged forward and pressed himself against a glass window of a shitty little electrical goods store. There was some tiny little relic of a TV in the display showing a local news channel. The reporter was standing by a manhole in Times Square with a harassed man in high viz.

“That’s Anschel – hi Anschel!” Ian yelled and waved and Mickey shushed him in a hurry.

“You know him?”

“Yeah!” Ian beamed. “He helped me when I first got out the hole.”

A cold, awful weight settled in Mickey’s stomach. “You – you came out of a hole? Like in the ground?”

Ian looked at him funny. “Yeah. That one, right there,” he pointed at Anschel’s feet. “Andalasia’s right on the other side.”

Mickey forced a smile but plucked his phone outta his pocket and started typing a message to Angie furiously.

_We got a problem_

_**What now?** _

_Know how you couldn’t find Andathingy?_

**_…yeah?_ **

_It don’t exist. Some sick fuck’s been keeping Ian underground._

He pocketed his phone and tugged Ian away from the window as the news reporter moved on to a story about some poor schmuck nearly getting trampled by a couple of horses. This fuckin’ guy who smiled like a boy scout, gushed over Yev’s drawings, and could lay out a New York mugger in a hot minute, had been held who knows where in the city’s underbelly like a prisoner or some shit. And Ian though he was going back? Yeah, over Mickey's dead body.

* * *

Queen Ingrid smashed the mirror. Not only had that disease-ridden bat and that hopeless sycophant slipped through the well, but Ian had remembered where he’d fallen into the other world. He wasn’t supposed to have remembered! The magic of the portal was supposed to be infused with a memory spell. Didn’t she cast the memory spell? Oh, she was so _sure_ she had.

But then. She had forgotten to remove the enchantment from the well after pushing Ian in. How could she have been so foolish! She’d been so focused on everyone else that she was going to be brought down by her own stupidity!

Ingrid paced up and down her room, grabbing things, topping them, smashing them, as she raged. She would let herself rage, and then she would _fix_ this.

*

Carl swung Liam in circles. He swatted at his little butt, pretended to kick him and raced through the corridors as they headed off to get Liam’s things so Carl could take him on a horse ride this afternoon. Liam had just ducked under Carl’s legs to get the drop on him from behind, when a crash had them spinning to look down the corridor that let to the Queen’s chambers.

Carl quickly tucked Liam behind him and held a finger to his lips. Liam nodded dutifully and together they crept towards the crashing. Carl kept one hand on the hilt of his sword and ever so slowly pushed the door to the Queen’s room open just enough that he could peer inside.

Ingrid was acing, racing in and out of his line of vision. The floor was strewn with debris, as if there had been some great struggle. He was about to stride into that room, do his duty as a captain of the realm and defend his Queen, when Ingrid started muttering.

“Cursed interferers! They’ll expose me. Oh what to do? Think, Ingrid!”

She stopped with her back to Carl and settle trembling hands on her hips.

“Alright,” she breathed. “Alright. I’ll close the portal so no one else can go running after him. But I need mugwort – I’ll find some tomorrow. Then just one of his shirts, I’ll rip it up, some mud and blood should convince them he’s dead. Yes. _Yes_. That’s it!”

Carl grabbed Liam and strode out of the corridor. Was she talking about _Ian?_ Did she have something to do with his brother’s disappearance? Carl bit down the anger that soured in his belly and he gave Liam a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“Okay little buddy,” he said. “Hold tight, alright? We gotta go find Lip.”

Carl had a head for law, order, and strategy, but he had no idea what to do here. He had to run this past Lip first before he did anything. But if she did have anything to do with Ian and whatever had happened to him, so help him there would be nowhere she could run where Carl wouldn’t find her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Forced captivity

Backed up by Angie, Enzo had given Mickey the day off. They’d spent a quiet night at the apartment. Ian hadn’t quite shaken his funk from his conversation with Mickey earlier that day; Mickey was trying to digest what he’d learned about Ian and where he came from, and Yev had picked up on the mood like kids do and had coloured and scribbled quietly. It had lasted until Mickey had served up noodles for dinner (he loved Chinese take out, but his wallet didn’t) and Ian had slurped it up, noodle by noodle with hollowed cheeks and sauce all over his lips, and Mickey was resolutely _not_ staring.

So they had the whole day ahead of them and it figured that when Mickey actually had some time to figure this shit out, Ian proclaimed their plans for the day over pop tarts and coffee.

“I want to help.”

Mickey arched his eyebrow and eyed Ian over the rim of his mug. “Like clean? You’re all cleaned out man. The place is spotless.”

Ian looked distinctly unimpressed. “No. I mean out there,” he nodded at a window. “It’s what I did – _do_ – at home.”

Mickey noisily swallowed a mouthful of coffee, taking that little morsel of information with it. Did he mean he had been allowed to walk the streets sometimes? Or did he mean where they’d been keeping him?

“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Like what?”

“Like anything. I let Kev rob me –“

“What?”

“ – just to feed his kids. I lead some of Carl’s kids on drills.”

_“Drills?”_

“I’d fix things for people. Just, anything.”

Yeah, okay. If Ian wanted to get a hobby that wasn’t getting mugged or teaching child soldiers, then Mickey was all in.

“Yeah. Sure. Okay. What to do want to do? What do you actually _like_ doing?”

Ian dropped his mug to the table with a gentle flump. No one had ever asked him what he wanted before. He loved his family like crazy, but as the middle child he was pretty used to flying under the radar. When they weren’t worried about his complete lack of desire to sing or dance, they weren’t worried at all. They just left him to live his life whilst they dealt with their own stuff. Until he met Trevor. But here was Mickey, who’d known him for all of two days, asking him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re just all kinds of wonderful, aren’t you?” he breathed fondly.

Mickey flushed from his neck to the roots of his hair. “Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled.

Ian stretched his hand over the table and lightly drummed his fingertips an inch from Mickey’s. “Not used to receiving compliments, Mick?”

Ian relished the pink blush on the pale skin as Mickey frantically downed his coffee.

“Not from skinny little redheads,” Mickey quipped as he stood up.

“Oh is that right? Skinny?” Ian challenged teasingly. “You wish you had these guns.” He flexed his arms playfully and Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Get dressed. We can go to the animal shelter or the kid’s hospital or something. Talk about some volunteer work.”

Ian nodded cheerfully, looking forward to trying on the clothes that Mickey had picked up for him on the way home yesterday. _(“I’m sick of lookin’ at your ankles, man. And you have absolutely no ass.”)_ He idly watched Mickey swagger off, admiring the way he moved. Another thing he’d never done with Trevor – just looked and admired. And he felt like that was something you should do with your true love. Every hour he stayed in this cosy apartment and spent with that grumpy man and his sweet son, the clearer it was becoming to Ian that Trevor wasn’t going to be what Ian hoped for. More than that, the longer he spent here, the less he thought about going home.

* * *

Mickey’s lip was going to bleed of Ian kept at it. The guy’s first foray into being an upstanding citizen of New York was not going well.

He’d come happily into the summer’s day and listened patiently to Mickey’s grumbling. Mickey had been regaling Ian with all the reasons why unpaid work was bullshit, when suddenly Ian had darted off. Mickey watched as he approached an old women laden with grocery bags and solidified his status as a bona fide boy scout.

If this kid was going to stick around, Mickey was going to have to toughen him up or send him to the suburbs.

But then it had gone from endearing to fuckin’ hilarious. As Ian tried to free the woman of her bags, she came up swinging. With more strength than Mickey expected, she hauled her handbag in an arc over her shoulder and brought it down with a resounding slap over Ian’s head. Mickey winced but didn’t make a single move to help. Ian covered his head with his arms as the old lady hurled abuse at him, and he made a valiant effort to run away.

Mickey’s eyes burned and he tasted blood as Ian returned gasping to his side, harried, abused, and righteously indignant.

“That,” he panted. “Was just, _rude!"_ He bellowed it across the street and got a swift middle finger in return.

Mickey choked and pulled Ian away. “She musta thought you were tryin’ to rob her.” He nearly lost his composure at the vicious look Ian shot him. “C’mon, superman,” he teased. “Let’s go before she comes for your ass.”

Ian grumbled about ungrateful citizens but let himself be pulled along. Mickey took them through a local park that Yevy liked to play in. It had big green spaces, swings, a climbing frame, and Mickey always felt a warm sense of calm whenever he came here. Ian couldn’t help but notice that little change in him and couldn’t stop his feet from leading him that bit closer to Mickey until their arms brushed occasionally and Mickey playfully nudged Ian with his shoulder.

It shouldn’t have been this easy, Mickey thought. Nothing had ever come easy to him and relationships were right at the top of that list. Even something as innocent as brushing hands together had him barking at Tony before. But here we walked like it was no big deal and fuck if walking side by side with Ian, joking with Ian, playing with Yevgeny _with_ Ian wasn’t just the easiest thing. That in itself should have been sounding the klaxon and ringing all kinds of bells for Mickey, triggering defense mechanisms and everything. But it wasn’t. Instead, he was doing stupid shit like contemplating how Ian’s hair looked in the afternoon sun, and were freckles countable? He made himself sick, he really did. He was getting so far gone on this kid.

Which was dangerous. Mickey wasn’t an idiot. He had no idea what Ian had been through and getting attached to someone that he knew nothing about could only lead him to one hell of a fall. It was a point driven home to him as Ian gasped and ran off _again_ and he was going to invest in a fuckin’ leash if they were going to keep hanging out.

He trotted after Ian, who was galloping towards some indie student film production where some poor sucker had just received a mortal wound at the apex of the film’s drama. But Ian rushed right passed the cameras giving them a funny look, before he pounced on the guy covered in corn syrup and red food dye, and who looked understandably terrified of the six-foot-something redhead bearing down on him.

Mickey caught up and Ian was pushing down on the red patch and the kid under him was wriggling, trying to get away. He heard Ian trying to reassure him.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” he murmured.

“Get off me!” The guy shouted and pushed at Ian. But Ian held strong, and pushed down harder which triggered the rest of the film crew. They descended like a pack of fuckin’ wolves.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Find your own movie, asshole!”

“That’s the third time this week!”

“Will _somebody_ get him off Geoff!”

That was Mickey’s queue. Some fat fuck hauled an armful of Ian into the air, Mickey landed a knee to the balls and grabbed Ian and ran. Tonguing his teeth and cackling, Mickey sprinted around flower beds and chattering kids until they couldn’t hear the yells of the film crew behind them.

“What – what,” Ian gasped as the finally slowed down. “What is wrong with the people in this town?! This, is such _bullshit!”_

Mickey belly laughed, wrapped an arm around Ian’s neck and dragged him down to rough up his hair. Ian pushed and pulled and got his arms around Mickey’s waist and yanked him this way and that.

“C’mon asshole,” Mickey pushed Ian forward. “Let’s go find you some fluffy animals or kids to read to. Nothin’ too dangerous.”

“You’re funny,” Ian grumbled. “Such a funny guy, right here. They’ll probably beat me up, too.”

Mickey laughed and nodded. “Probably.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket and when Mickey saw Yev’s school flash up on the screen, he cursed and waved Ian off. Yevgeny had been a horror that morning. He’d wanted to stay home from school since Mickey got to stay home from work and Mickey had damn near had to carry him the whole way there. He’d left him with a stenn warning.

_“I better not get a call from the nurse sayin’ you’re sick, You so much as fake a cough to skip school, and you’re gonna be grounded so hard that the day you get out they’ll need to put you in a home. You hear me? Yeah, you fuckin’ hear me.”_

The little shit was growing one hell of a set on him, Mickey would give him that. He punched the answer button.

“You better not be callin’ me to tell me my son’s sick.”

_“…Mr Milkovich?”_

“He’s not sick. Don’t let the big eyes fool you.”

_“Mr Milkovich, I have Yevgeny here. He’s complaining of a stomach ache.”_

Mickey sighed. “Put him on the damn phone.”

There was clattering on the other end and a tiny timid voice floated into his ears.

_“Hi daddy.”_

“Don’t you 'hi daddy' me, Yevgeny Aleksandr. What did I tell you? What did I say?”

_“But I really am sick!”_

“My ass –“

_“Could you and Ian -?”_

“No.” Mickey stopped him dead. “What’s the one thing I told you to never do to me?”

He heard Yevgeny shuffling the phone. _“Lie,”_ he said softly.

“You gonna stop lyin’ to me and get back to class?”

_“Yes, daddy.”_

Mickey fought a smile at how desolate he sounded. “Good. Hang up the phone, idiot.”

_“Love you.”_

“Yeah. Love you too.”

And he did, that little bastard. Mickey shoved the phone back in his pocket and had a smug grin and an _I told you so_ on his lips just for Ian. The big bleeding heart had thought he was being too harsh on Yevy that morning.

But they both died when Mickey caught sight of him. Ian was on a patch of grass brandishing a large stick at a group of children. Which would have been alarming if they hadn’t all been brandishing sticks of their own. They copied the twirls and strikes and slashes Ian was showing them.

Sword fighting. He turned his back for two minutes and Ian took it upon himself to create a sword fighting school right in the middle of the park.

Mickey settled in to watch. This fuckin’ guy.

* * *

“Your highness!” Lip shouted across the courtyard when the Queen’s cape finally fluttered into view. “Ingrid! Wait a second.”

He jogged to catch her up. Ingrid hadn’t stopped, but she at least slowed for him which was more than he had expected. Lip had always felt that the Queen didn’t like him Which was fair. He hadn’t liked her either at first. But even as his own opinion of her improved, she’s stayed uneasy in his company.

And if Carl was telling the truth, he might have found out why.

“Prince Phillip,” Ingrid acknowledged him without looking.

“Can we talk?” Lip worked hard to keep his tone even. “About Ian?”

“I’m going to meet Carl at the barracks to discuss security,” she said imperiously. “Can’t it wait?”

Hi royal ass. Carl had gathered Debbie and Liam and took them away for the afternoon, mostly to resist the impulse of doing something monumentally stupid, like kidnap the Queen and torture information out of her. Lip was pleased with how much Carl had grown since his childhood.

“I’m headed out to talk to the fishermen,” Lip said. “I’ll walk you as far as the wheat fields?”

Ingrid said nothing and they trudged on together in silence for a while until Lip managed to force out the bitter tasting words. “I uh, just wanted to thank you. You know, for everything you’re doing to help find Ian. Especially since he’s not even your kid.”

“Yes, well. When I married your father I agreed to care for all of his children, too. You were there. You heard the vows.”

Lip nodded. He had. It had been the most forced, hastily put together production he’d seen since Debbie’s last nursery play.

“I just – it must give our mother some comfort to know the woman closest to her in her last moments is taking care of her family.”

The Queen stumbled and made a show of kicking a loose pebble and Lip felt the connections firing in his brain.

“So,” he said lightly. “Is there nothing on how Ian vanished?”

“Philip,” the Queen didn’t quite snap. “We are scouring the lands top to bottom –“

“But what if he’s not in the lands? What if he’s not here at all? What if –“ he lowered his voice, “What if it was something magic, like a portal?”

Ingrid stiffened. “Portals are banned,” she sounded scandalised.

“After that old couple fell in, I know.” He didn’t miss Ingrid’s eye twitch there. “But people _do_ break the law. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? We can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.”

He watched a brief battle play across Ingrid’s face before she gave a tight nod. “I’ll look into it,” she finally agreed. “But you will leave this to me, Phillip. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt. You can be so impetuous at times.”

Lips skin pricked at the warning she was trying to hide under her words and held his hands up in agreement.

“Looks like this is where we part,” he said cheerfully as they reached the fork in the road. “Thanks for your time, your highness.”

He turned away first. Best to give her a false sense of security from watching him round the bend in the road and turn out of site. But as soon as he was, he ducked into the brush at the side of the road and looped back to follow the Queen.

He’d clearly rattled her. She kept looking around, checking if she was being followed. He even saw her mutter something which made her fingertips glow and it took everything in Lip not to jump out of his cover and drag her back to the castle in chains. Carl had been right. _Karen_ had been right, and Lip’s blindness and arrogance had cost them so much valuable time to find Ian again. If he was lost to them forever, Lip would never forgive himself.

He followed Ingrid to a crumbling tower overgrown with ivy. He remembered Monica used to take Ian to one just like it on those days they’d spend just the two of them, thick as thieves.

He waited as Ingrid rounded the base of the tower, before darting forward and pressing close to the stones. He crept after her as closely as he dared. He heard a groaning and creaking and a heavy clunk. Leaning around slightly, he saw Ingrid heave open a door hidden behind the ivy, and then disappear inside.

Lip waited as long as he could and gave silent thanks that the door was so old and so heavy that it took its sweet time to close. He held and held and when there was only a sliver of space left, just enough for his slender body to fit, he slipped through.

The darkness quickly engulfed him Lip scrambled blindly until he stubbed his toe on the stub of a staircase. He swallowed a curse and slowly, silently, started to ascend.

He couldn’t hear Ingrid anymore, but luckily the stairs led straight up to one lonely, solitary floor at the top of the tower. Once the stairs came to an end, Lip peered around the corner and saw a corridor lit with torches. There were doors, skinny little service corridors, nooks and crannies, littered all along it, all dark and silent but affording Lip plenty of cover if Ingrid came scurrying back. After a few minutes the corridor let out to a small circular room. The walls were line with cell doors. Some of them were so rotted, they had gaping holes revealing the cold, damp bellies of the cells they guarded. The locks were rusted and some had crumbled to grit and flakes and rusted dust on the floor. But there, right across from the mouth of corridor, was a glistening lock hanging from a door of varnished, strong, healthy wood. The door was slightly ajar and soft murmurs fluttered out.

Lip let himself feel a flash of pity for the sorry soul Ingrid had imprisoned here. But they wouldn’t be here or much longer. He ducked through one of the rotted doorways and tucked himself into the furthest darkest corner and waited.

Thankfully, Ingrid didn’t seem to want to waste any time here. With a solid _thud,_ he heard the door to the other cell close and listened as Ingrid’s footsteps crossed the room and faded down the corridor. He waited some moments more, putting some of that staircase between them before he wriggled back through the rotten door and ran to the cell Ingrid had locked.

There were no windows or grates. There was no keyhole to peer through. So Lip knocked.

“Hello?” he whispered. It was difficult to talk in the oppressive darkness of this place. Firelight did nothing to penetrate the sense of foreboding pushing at his back. “Hello? Can you hear me? I’m here to help.”

The chinking of chains weaved through the defences of the cell. Lip looked around for the gap; he wouldn’t have been able to hear that if there wasn’t one, and yes, _there_.

A small sliver of light glinted of the buckle of his shoe. The door wasn’t flush with the floor. Lip dropped to his belly like someone had cut his strings and shuffled as close to the gap as he could get. He could feel the lip of the door against his eyelashes when he blinked.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The cell was lit by sunlight streaming in through a small window. He saw the bottom of an unused fireplace, rotten food scattered over the floor, and there, in the corner, sat a huddled figure. It was wrapped in chains, its hair was matter and dirty and its skin was smeared with grime. It was clad in rags and fury flushed Lip’s skin with red.

“Hey! I can see you. In the corner, I’m going to get you outta here. Do you hear me?”

The person’s head shot up. Their mouth was bound but it stared at Lip with unmistakable green eyes.

Lip’s heart stopped. The heat of his anger gave way to the ice that flooded his veins.

_“Mom?!”_

* * *

Karen was exhausted. Living with a prince had devastated her fitness levels. She’d flown all day and it wasn’t until dusk had crept up on her that she’s gotten a lead on Ian from some rats. They hadn’t been inclined to help at all at first, but it was funny what a quick scenic flight did in the name of interspecies cooperation.

Colourful slights against her mother and all bat-kind aside, she’d discovered that Ian had gone off with a dark haired man, and had a rough location to restart her search. Trevor had again taken to it with gusto and run ahead of her in the general direction they’d been given. A small mercy, Karen sighed in relief. He could run head first into trouble that would hopefully, keep him tied up enough that Karen could look for Ian without Trevor fucking it up.

Trevor meanwhile, felt revived, armed with their fresh lead. He scanned the people on the streets, blessedly less than there had been when they first climbed out of the portal. Most of them looked like civilians, heads down minding their own business, or laughing with their friends. But when Trevor approached one building – a bright sign naming it _Angelo’s_ – a tall man with sleek dark hair scurried out of the front door and glanced around before burying his face into his collar.

That _must_ be him.

Steeling himself, Trevor ran lightly behind the man, glad for his preference for soft shoes. Not wanting to risk losing the element of surprise, Trevor leapt at the man as soon as he was close enough. He went down with a yell and Trevor slipped his dagger from his shoe and held it firmly against the man’s throat as he flipped him over.

“I’ve got you,” Trevor crowed. “I’ve been all over this cursed town looking for you. I bet you thought you’d gotten away – _stay still!_ ”

The man stopped fighting him and looked supremely annoyed – a response that would have been disappointing for Trevor if not for the anticipation of finally rescuing Ian.

Trevor growled. “Where is he?”

The man sighed. “You gotta be more specific here, _coglione_.”

“Ian! You know exactly who I’m talking about! The finest prince in Andalasia. And _my_ fiancé. Where is he?!” Trevor pressed the dagger in further to make his point.

The man’s palms shot up. “’Ey, yeah, Ian. I remember now, sure. Just uh, easy with the knife there, huh? I’ll take you right to him, but you gotta let me up first.”

Triumphant, Trevor eased off the man and let him clamber to his feet. He was clearly sensible, knowing when he’d been beaten. So Trevor lowered his guard, prepared to follow the final path back to his Ian, when the man lunged for his wrist and knocked Trevor’s dagger flying. Before he could raise a hand to defend himself, every breath in Trevor’s body in one awful gasp as the man punched him in the stomach. Trevor fell to his knees and another fist landed on his cheekbone, knocking him sideways. He curled up to protect his soft side and a few kicks landed down his spine. The man only stopped when the faint sounds of sirens echoed in the air.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, stunned at the attack. The few rogue’s who’d crossed his path at home had been dispersed so easily. A silver tongue and a steel dagger had never failed him. Until today. He’d never been trounced so thoroughly, and _oh_ if that didn’t make him fear for Ian out there alone in this world.

A hand clutched his shoulder and gently rolled him onto his back.

“Hey, easy buddy. Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Trevor groaned and nodded before opening his eyes. A blue eyed man in a dark blue suit with short honey blonde hair hovered over him.

“What’s your name buddy?”

“Trevor,” he gasped.

The man patted his shoulder. “Trevor. I’m Tony. Tony Markovich. Can you tell me what happened?”

Trevor dragged himself into sitting and Tony helped him prop his back against the stone wall of _Angelo’s_.

“There was a man,” Trevor explained. “He has my fiancé.”

Tony looked at him sadly, but pulled out a small notebook and a pen and started scribbling. “Your fiancé’s missing?”

Trevor nodded. “He’s lost. We were told the dark haired man had him.”

“Any particular reason the mob would be after your or your fiancé?”

Trevor frowned. “What’s the mob?”

Tony pointed at the building. “You’re dark haired friend is, if this is where you found him. And nothing to be messed with. If you need help, you come to the police. Going vigilante will get you killed.”

Trevor flushed with embarrassment and anger. “It’d be worth it. To keep him safe.”

Tony’s blue eyes bore into the rich dark pools of Trevor’s own. There was nothing threatening there, or pitying or mocking. If Trevor flattered himself, what he saw was admiration.

“You’re too good for a place like this, Trevor,” Tony said. “I hope your fiancé knows he’s a lucky man.”

* * *

Yevgeny was being unreasonable.

“That’s a whole cheeseburger for two slices of pizza!” Ian wailed. “That’s more than a fair trade!”

Yevy kept stuffing the thick cheesy slices he was working on into his gullet, staring Ian right in the eye.

“It’s bigger than you. You’re not going to finish it!”

Mickey was no help. He’d turned back to his steak when negotiations had broken down, muttering about finding company his own age.

Ian scowled at the child. “You’ll have to go to the bathroom sometime, mister. Don’t think I didn’t see how fast you drank your lemonade.”

He grunted and turned back to his cheeseburger and fries and quietly decided that “dates” were the best thing ever.

When Mickey asked them what they wanted for dinner, Yevy had told him in no uncertain terms that Mickey was taking Ian on a date and Yevy was coming too. Ian had agreed before Mickey had said anything, but was quick to ask, “What’s a date?”

Mickey had given him one of those looks again, full of _something_ , and explained.

“It’s uh, it’s what you do when you’re getting to know somebody,” he’d said. “You go out for a nice meal or to a movie, or for a walk in the park, and talk. About each other, what you like, all that kinda stuff. You get to know each other, figure out of you like each other or not.”

Ian had beamed. “Oh, well you and I have been on a ton of dates already.”

A strangled sound forced its way from Mickey's throat.

“We’ve been to the park and Yev’s school and your work. And we’re always talking.”

Mickey had blushed _again_ and scrubbed his face as Yevy cackled. Mickey shoo-ed them both off to get ready before he changed his mind.

Mickey had decided to take them to his favourite Italian restaurant, _Angelo’s_ , but the place had been crawling with cops and Mickey was in no mood to run into Tony, so they’d gone to a little place a few blocks over. It was cheap and warm and judging by the truly pornographic noises Ian made when he tried Yev’s pizza, the food was pretty good too.

Ian unabashedly dipped one of his fries into Mickey’s pepper sauce, and Mickey pretended to be annoyed.

“So,” Ian chirped munching on his fry. “How many dates do you have to go one before you’re allowed to say if you like each other not?”

Mickey glanced up and saw Ian smirking at him, and how was it fair that a jaw line like that even existed? 

“I don’t think there’s a set rule or anything.”

Ian nodded satisfied. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t need another date to know I like you. I didn’t even need this one.” The cheeky fucker winked at him.

Mickey took a mouthful of beer. “You don’t have dates where you come from?”

Ian shook his head and grimaced. “Not really. Everything just…happens a lot faster.”

Mickey read between the lines. “What, too fast to hang out for a couple of hours?” Mickey wasn't sure why he was defending the idea. He hated dates. Well, he hated dates normally, but this one was kinda nice. But Ian definitely seemed like the 'date' kinda guy.

Ian blushed, embarrassed. He preferred the way things were done here. He didn’t think he’d enjoyed a single day with Trevor like he had this night with Mickey and Yev. But he didn’t think Mickey would understand the way things worked in Andalasia.

“Kind of?”

Mickey arched his eyebrows and waited.

“I mean, you meet someone, you fall in love, and you get married.”

“What’s so weird about that? That's what normal, well adjusted people do right?"

Ian rubbed his neck. “It’s usually... well, it usually happens over a few days.”

Mickey coughed on his beer and stared at him like he was from another world. Which, Ian supposed, he was.

“You don’t get to know each other before you get married?” Mickey spluttered. “What if you find out you hate each other? How did anyone decide that’s a good idea?”

Ian huffed and glowered at the table and a little thump under the table drew a hiss from Mickey and Ian gave Yevgeny a grateful grin. It was Mickey’s turn to flush with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and Ian tried to shrug it off.

“No,” Mickey insisted. “I told ya, I run my mouth. I’m not gonna judge shit. Different strokes and all that.”

That earned him a nod of approval from Yev, so Mickey thought, what the hell? Why not go for the home run?

“For what it’s worth, I like you too.”

Ian preened. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re alright.”

A loud slurping interrupted them as Yevy polished off Ian’s soda whilst he’d been distracted. Mickey shook his head in despair.

“I’ve raised a damn pig.”

The rest of their dinner passed in a sweet haze and Ian barely took his eyes off Mickey. His dimples when he laughed; the soft curl of that lock of hair he hadn’t been able to tame that morning; the solid look of his chest and the way his shirt fit over his shoulders; his fingers as they brushed through Yev’s hair. And not once in the entire evening did that longing for home and his family pang in his chest. It was funny. Someone had sent him here because they wished him harm, but Ian was starting to think that this was where he was supposed to be, watching Mickey and Yev tussle as they walked home by lamplight.

They tumbled into the apartment, Ian holding the door open and Mickey peeling Yevy from his leg and wrestling him from his coat.

“Go open a window squirt. S’hot as balls in here.”

Yev dutifully pattered off to the window and Mickey turned to Ian. He tongued his bottom lip and threw a few mock jabs at Ian.

“What about you, tough guy?”

“Oh is that how it is?” Ian teased and stripped off his jacket. “You wanna go?”

Ian raised his fists and Yev started cheering. Mickey threw a few hands and Ian bobbed and weaved and danced around him.

“Thought you were going to fight,” Mickey taunted. “Not do all this pussy shit. What’s the matter? Afraid of getting your hands dirty?”

“Yeah Ian! Get him!”

Mickey swung round on Yevgeny, betrayed. “You little Judas!” Ian took his chance. He ducked under Mickey’s defences, wrapped his arms around his chest and hauled _ass._ He yanked Mickey up and over and they landed on the floor with a heavy thud. Ian had Mickey pinned face first with his hands behind his back.

Ian couldn’t resist. “I thought you were going to fight? Not do this pussy _shit?”_

Mickey got a knee under him and used his momentum to flip them. He pointedly ignored Yev’s booing from the side lines and pinned Ian’s hands behind his head.

“Of course I am. Gotcha, motherfucker,” Mickey smirked down at Ian who stared back. Out of words and out of moves, Mickey had floored him.

“Yeah,” Ian breathed and Mickey caught it. Surprise loosened his grip on Ian’s wrist and Ian knew Mickey was about to stand up, which was just, _not_ what he wanted right now because _shit_ , what were soft touches and hand holding compared to throwing each other around?

But before Mickey could get to his feet, Yevy screamed and a yellow mass careened right into the side of Mickey’s head. Mickey raised his hands on reflex to shove the _thing_ off him, but it flapped big black _fuckin’ wings_ and flew off.

“Is that a fuckin’ bat?” Mickey watched horrified as it flew in an arc and came screeching back for him. “Yev! Get the broom!”

The fanged fucker was heading right for his face, but Mickey was going to beat it like a piñata. He took the broom off Yev, held it high, aimed – and was pushed hard to the floor as Ian pushed him out of the way.

“Karen, stop it!” Ian ordered the bat and Mickey thought he must have hit his head on the way down, because otherwise he was watching Ian holding a bat and giving it a stern fucking talking to.

“He was not!” Ian carried on like they were having a conversation. “He’s a friend. We were playing!”

The bat – Karen, Mickey reminded himself – calmed down. It stopped hissing and flapping at him and instead wrapped its giant fucking wings around Ian’s head.

Yevy slinked over to Mickey and looked at Ian through the gap in Mickey’s legs.

“I’m sorry,” Ian murmured. “I’m such an idiot. I missed you, too. What – _Ingrid?!"_

The bat started screeching again and Ian listened intently.

“Who’s Ingrid?” Yev asked from his safe space.

“My stepmother,” Ian didn’t look away from the bat. “She did this?”

And seeing Ian having a _conversation_ with a _bat_ was just about his tipping point.

“Does anybody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?! Why is there a bat in my apartment?!”

Ian turned chagrined and still holding Karen. “Um, Mickey, meet Karen,” he brandished her at him. “She’s my friend from back home. Karen, this is Mickey, and _this_ is his son, Yevgeny.”

Bravely, Yevy crept out from behind Mickey’s legs, but Mickey snagged him before he could get too close. All for nought though, as the bat fluttered out of Ian’s arms and landed with a gentle flump a few inches shy of his son.

Slowly it extended one wing to Yev’s reaching fingers. As soon as he placed one gentle pad against the warm leather he giggled an snatched his hand back before bounding over to Ian. The bat gave Mickey one long, steady look before following after Yev. It chirped more gently at Ian, whose face fell like a hunk of lead.

“Trevor’s here?”

Ian looked at Mickey then, desperate and sad and pleading and Mickey had no idea who Trevor was, but if he put tat look on Ian’s face, Mickey wasn’t about to let him anywhere near him. Or at least that was the plan.

Yev tugged on Ian’s hand. “Who’s Trevor?”

Ian kept his eyes fixed on Mickey. “My fiancé.”

And that was that, wasn’t it? Mickey had never felt so stupid in his life. This kid had turned up and crashed right into his life, wriggled into a perfect Ian shaped hole – and he’d already had someone all along. He’d been _engaged_ all along. Every flirt, every touch had been friendly, platonic, and nothing more. Mickey had let his guard down and surprise, here came the kick in the ass he deserved.

“Um, where is he?” Ian turned back to Karen.

She raised her wings in what Mickey was pretty sure was a shrug. She fluttered over to the couch and got herself comfy.

Mickey swallowed the last painful shared of his humility. “I’ll help you find him,” he told Ian. “In the morning, we’ll go out and get him.”

Ian didn’t say thank you. He didn’t smile or nod. He just watched as Mickey ushered Yevgeny off to bed and left him standing there. He never looked back.

* * *

Sleep didn’t find him, and it had nothing to do with Yev’s kicking and thrashing. Every time Mickey closed his eyes, Ian’s stupid face and stupid hair and stupid _everything_ haunted him. His litany of smiles, his complete disregard for personal space. The looks Mickey had been convinced meant something. And the worst thing about it was he couldn’t even cry bullshit. Ian was so genuine, Mickey couldn’t even be mad at him. He was mad at himself. He’d only survived in Chicago because of his ability to read people. You weren’t a closeted fag on South Side without being able to tell the difference between someone being over friendly and someone down to fuck. New York had given him the chance to be himself like he’d never been before, but old habits, no, fuck that, _survival instincts_ died hard. Unless, apparently, they were faced with a confused, sweet as fuck redhead who had a mean right hook and may or may not have been kept underground in some kind of cult with a pet bat.

So there Mickey lay, fuming in defeat with a six-year-old muttering about pop tarts in his sleep. Mickey carefully eased out of bed and tip-toed out the room. He made sure to leave the bedroom door open a little so Yev would know where he’d gone if he woke up. He padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, more to focus his hands and thoughts than to quench his thirst. He swallowed slick gulps. He drummed his fingertips on the countertops against the muted hum of the refrigerator.

A shuffling joined his quiet concerto and stopped at the door.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Mickey spoke softly into the sink.

Ian scuffed his feet on the floor.

“Too excited? Gotta be. You got your pet back and your man’s out there looking for you.” Mickey was proud of how even his voice was.

“Not exactly.”

Mickey turned to Ian leaning against the entryway. His arms were folded across his chest and he looked at Mickey like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

“Mick,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Mickey set his glass down. He was absolutely _not_ doing this tonight. He manoeuvred around Ian and kept his tone deliberately light. “What were you so worried for? It’s not any of my business.”

Ian hurried after him into the living room. “It’s not – I don’t – you _can’t_ –“

Mickey spun on his heel, bit his lip, cocked his eyebrow: a combination all to the effect of _I can’t what?_

“What do you think this is?” Mickey gestured between them. “We’ve known each other for what, three days?”

Ian took a determined step forward and Mickey had to brace himself not to step back. But being all up in this guy’s space messed with him and sent him stupid. He watched Ian tense his jaw, square his shoulders and steel his eyes as he stared Mickey down.

“Yeah,” Ian bit. “Three days. Three days where things have finally made sense. Three of the best damn days of my life.”

Mickey scoffed and made to push Ian back, but he only crowded Mickey further and caged him against the wall. “I haven’t felt weird or different. I haven’t felt afraid. And that’s you, Mickey, and this place. Not – it’s not –“

“Trevor,” Mickey finished him.

And just like that, the steel bled right out of Ian and he stared at Mickey with big plaintive eyes.

“It’s been a week.”

“What’s been a week?” asked Mickey.

“Trevor.”

“You’ve been engaged for a week?”

Ian scoffed. “We’ve _known_ each other for a week. But yeah. Engaged, too.”

Mickey blinked at him. “What. The. _Fuck?_ ”

“And that’s like,” he laughed bitterly. “That’s a fuckin’ long engagement where I come from, alright? We haven’t – we’ve never just played around, talked about just, nothing, for hours. We’ve never even been on a date.”

That right there struck something within Mickey. Ian was engaged to a man he’d not even had the chance to get to know each other, maybe even putting off the wedding because of it. And here he was, in Mickey’s living room in the middle of the night, begging him to understand.

And if there was one thing Mickey understood, it was feeling trapped.

Ian saw something click in Mickey’s eyes for a split second before one hand grabbed the back of Ian’s neck and the other caught a fist full of his t-shirt, and Mickey pulled Ian to close those last few inches.

This was no sweet press of lips sung about in stories. It wasn’t the tender embrace so coveted by people in Andalasia seeking their one true love. Mickey’s touch _burned_ Ian. His lips claimed Ian’s, hard and urgent. Ian’s gasp was pleading and desperate. He pressed one hand against the back of Mickey’s head and pressed closer. The hot slide of Mickey’s tongue scorched against his own and _fuck_ Ian was being _consumed_ and he was sure as hell going to take Mickey with him. Ian dropped his hands to wrap around Mickey’s back and they ran and pressed and caressed every piece of Mickey he could reach. Mickey’s hand slipped under his t-shirt and Ian shuddered into his mouth at the blunt drag of fingernails over the hidden skin. A groan was pulled from deep in his chest and then they broke apart with heaving breaths and trembling hands. Ian could feel Mickey’s legs shaking against his own.

“Fuck,” Mickey swore and Ian wholeheartedly agreed. He continued to run his hands over Mickey’s arms and sides, but Mickey gently put some space between them.

“I’m sorry,” he said and Ian shook his head.

“No, don’t be. Please don’t be. It’s okay. It’s _good_.”

“We shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Mickey what - ?”

“We won’t, uh, I won’t say anything to Trevor, yeah? I promise.”

Oh. _Oh._ Ian was brought back to their current situation with awful clarity it didn’t matter that he felt for Mickey. He was still engaged and both Mickey and Trevor deserved better than that.

That cold thought made Ian’s limbs heavy as Mickey walked away for the second time that night. Just before he disappeared, Mickey stopped and turned back to him.

“Hey, can you do me a favour?”

Ian nodded. He’d do anything for him.

“When we find Trevor, will you go on just one date with him before you leave? Give me some piece of mind, or whatever?”

Without waiting for an answer, Mickey returned to bed.

Neither of them had heard the pad of Yevgeny’s feet or the soft beat of wings as Karen gently tugged him from his spying place and tugged him back to his room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Homophobic language  
> Character death  
> Kidnapping

People in Andalasia didn’t sulk. They didn’t moan, they were never sad; they were happy all of the time because life was a perfect song. So Trevor wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling but he was decidedly _not_ happy as he left his accommodations.

That lovely man – a police officer who'd called himself. _Tony_ – had taken him to get a hot drink and a hot meal. He’d been kind and Trevor had struggled to look at his earnest face for too long. It had all been going swimmingly until they’d gotten round to a description of Ian.

_“Where do I start,” Trevor had sighed. “He’s tall and handsome. Strong and true. He’d leap in to a fray to defend anyone.”_

_Tony chuckled. “Maybe start with his hair colour? His height? Any identifying feature. I don’t think we’ll get very far if we put out a missing person’s report for ‘strong and true’.”_

_Trevor had laughed and tried to keep the flourishes to a minimum. “Let’s see. He’s about as tall as you. He’s well built – spends all day running around and helping people. He has green eyes and a ton of freckles and when it’s a sunny day they’re out in force, let me tell you. He has red hair and a square jaw and –“_

_But Tony had stopped scribbling and looked at Trevor like he’d struck him. “And – you said his name was Ian? Are you sure?”_

_“Yes, of course. Ian Gallagher.”_

_“And he was last seen in the company of a dark haired man?”_

_“Yeah,” Trevor confirmed. “ I told you all of this already. Tony,” he reached out and clasped his wrist. “What is it?”_

_Tony had looked at him so softly then. It was a look he’d never quite seen on Ian’s face. He’d, well, if Trevor was being truthful, Ian always looked a little guarded when they were together. He measured his words and calculated any contact. He was never open with Trevor the way he’d seen other couples be with each other. Trevor was fully prepared to put that down to pre-wedding jitters, but still. It was nice to see someone looking at him like that for once._

_“It’s nothing,” Tony said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. I think I remember one of the guys at the precinct mentioning him is all.”_

_“Really?!”_

_Tony smiled and patted the hand still clutching him before pulling gently away. “Really. He’s off shift, but I’ll check with him in the morning. Now, what’s say we get you a place to stay for the night?”_

Trevor had left the room Tony had procured for him at daybreak. A thin card with Tony’s name and a series of numbers on it was tucked securely in his pocket. Tony had told him to use it if Trevor needed him. He had no idea what the numbers meant, but he recognised an address when he saw one. He’d find Karen, let her know what happened and they’d go find Tony together and, hopefully, Ian.

But there was the rub. Where _was_ Karen? He’d gotten so caught up in chasing down the villain who’d stolen Ian, that he’d completely left her behind. She was a fully capable bat, so he wasn’t too worried, but he’d been raised better than to be so rude. He’d learned his lesson about wilfully running around this city, and Karen had always seemed to find him easily enough when she needed to. Heck, even when he’d convinced Ian to ditch her so they could have some alone time, she’d tracked them down with unerring accuracy every time. He’d cursed her for it then, but was hoping it would work in is favour now. All he needed was a vantage point – somewhere up high where she could see him when he called. And of the many, _many_ words he’d thoughts he'd had about this city, one of its better qualities was _height._

* * *

They were a strange troop that morning. Ian and Mickey studiously avoided each other. Mickey threw himself into the morning preparations – getting Yevy dressed, making breakfast, and even putting out a bowl of fresh fruit for Karen _(“Google said you eat this shit so, you know, dive in bat girl.”)_. Ian obediently got dressed, ate his toast and cast Mickey furtive looks as often as he dared. And since he was a bold fucker and thought he was sly as hell, Mickey caught Ian giving him a _lot_ of looks.

Yev however, was excited. He’d woken up last night to an empty bed and had went in faithful pursuit of his dad. Only when he peeked his head into the living room, he’d seen Ian and his dad kissing before Karen had found him and sent him back to bed.

Now, Yevgeny was pretty smart, but he didn’t know a whole lot about kissing. But what he did know was enough to convince him that Ian and his dad liked each other, and he _really_ wouldn’t mind if Ian was his dad’s true love. So clearly, in his mind, it meant Ian was here to stay, and wouldn’t try to go home anymore.

Karen was…intrigued. Sure, she’d thought Mickey was attacking her friend and she plotted many violent revenges in these first few minutes of their acquaintance. However, she knew her best friend and could read him like the back of her wing. He looked at Mickey like the answer to everything began and ended with him. Not Trevor. Not the Gallaghers. And certainly not a crown in Andalasia. But Mickey, with his tiny house and tiny son and scowling face.

Karen didn’t hate it. She hated this place, the smells, the sights, the sounds. It was all too much. But Ian looked like he fit here, wearing his heart on his strange new sleeves. Not having to act up to some glossy veneer of life he’d always felt out of step with. Ian liked a fight and a challenge, and Andalasia had never been enough for him. Karen had known this for a while, but Ian, bless his simple soul, had taken falling through a magical portal in a botched murder attempt to realise it.

And now here they were, trekking through the streets looking for a fiancé Ian didn’t want anymore, to go home to a world he wasn’t meant for.

Karen took a rest on Yev’s shoulders as they walked. He was the only one who wasn’t a completely stubborn idiot.

They were retracing the route Karen took last night. She’d spotted them on the street on their way home from the restaurant and had pelted after them. It was as good a place to start as any and they could ask around to see if anyone had spotted Trevor. Because they were certainly not talking to each other. Karen huffed into the awkward silence.

Mickey’s phone buzzed and he groaned when he saw who was calling. He punched the hang up button, turned it off and shoved it back in his pocket. “Fuckin’ Tony.”

Ian sent Mickey a worried look but kept silent. He twitched with the desire to call this whole thing off and drag them back to the apartment where they were happy and the status quo wasn’t about to be upended on its ass. He wanted to go back to yesterday and that perfect evening, like a damn coward. But he couldn’t leave Trevor out here on his own no matter how much Ian wished he’d never come. And Mickey deserved everything Ian could give him, not some secretive tryst with an engaged man. So if Mickey wanted him to find Trevor and go on a date and figure out what he wanted, then that was what he was going to do. He’d dutifully ignore the feeling deep inside that he already knew exactly what he wanted.

Mickey sighed from the front of their line. “Alright. The restaurant’s round the corner. Let’s start there but, uh, I don’t think they accept bats.”

Karen _humphed_ but flew up to perch on the red white and green awning over the front door. Mickey led them in and stepped up to the bar as Ian lifted Yev onto one of the stools and the boy immediately started spinning.

Mickey signalled the bartender fiddling with a coffee machine and Ian idly watched the television in the corner. He kept a loose hand on Yev to stop him from toppling over as he tried to spin himself faster and harder. A woman was talking to the screen, and skyscrapers lined the city behind her. He couldn’t hear her but some thoughtful soul had turned on the closed captions so Ian could read what was being said.

_New York’s finest firefighters are staging a rescue as we speak. No one knows how the man got up on that ledge, but it’s suspected that he snuck into the building and took a service elevator to one of the lower roofs before climbing over onto the ledge. The police have been unable to identify him from the footage so far, so they’re asking anyone with any information about him to come forward._

A shaky video came up on screen of a man clutching the side of a building as he balanced precariously on the ledge of a building. He was shouting something, and Ian would have thought he was an idiot if it was anything but _“Help!”_. The camera zoomed in and Ian gripped Yev’s shoulder so suddenly he brought him to a complete stop.

“Mickey –“ Ian said slowly. He felt like his mouth was full of thick, thick honey. _“Mickey!”_

Mickey looked over and saw Ian pointing at the TV. “What? What is it?”

Ian looked resigned as he looked back at Mickey. “It’s Trevor.”

Ian hauled Yevy out the seat and kept a hold of him as they sprinted out of the restaurant and towards Trevor. Mickey swore he knew where it was and it wasn’t far away. With a sharp whistle, he flagged down a cab and Karen followed overhead.

By the time they reached the building, a significant crowd had gathered, and they were cheering and yelling. Mickey paid the driver and together the three of them fought their way through the crowds, Ian and Mickey each holding firm to one of Yevgeny’s hands.

“Sorry! Excuse me. Let us through please. I need to – can you move?”

“Ey! Move it asshole!”

“Kiss my ass!"

“How ‘bout I beat it all the way round the block instead. Fuckin’ _move it!”_

Eventually they broke to the front and there Trevor stood, wrapped in a blanket being checked over by paramedics and a disapproving police force hovering nearby. Ian ran forward, alone, and the second Trevor saw him, he threw off his blanket and leapt at him. He wrapped Ian in a tight squeeze and buried his face in his neck. Ian patted his back and rubbed his arms reassuringly and over Trevor’s shoulder, he saw Tony waving off the police before glaring at him fiercely. Ian averted his gaze and gently pushed Trevor back so he could look at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” He almost shouted. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

Trevor frowned at Ian’s language, like he always had, but clasped his hands hard. “Looking for you! Ian, god, I’ve been so worried about you!”

Trevor hugged him again and Ian had never felt guiltier in his life. It wasn’t Trevor’s fault Ian was the way he was. None of this was Trevor’s fault, and he’d been so afraid for Ian, he’d followed him through a magical portal.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said and meant it. “Thank you. You didn’t have to come for me.”

“Of course I did! When I think about you being here alone,” Trevor shuddered and Tony came up behind them, grasped Trevor’s shoulder and placed the blanket over him again before slinking back. The exchange bemused Ian, but Trevor didn’t give him an opportunity to dwell on it. “I can’t wait until we can go back home and just forget this awful place.”

And that didn’t sit well with Ian at all. He tensed but gave Trevor the brightest smile he could muster. “Actually, it’s been kinda great here,” Ian assured him. “I met some people and they’ve been, just, incredible and kind. Here –“ Ian turned back to see Mickey trying to blend in to the crowd and Yevy trying to tug him forward.

“Mickey?” Ian called and the man reluctantly stepped forward. “Trevor, this is Mickey and Yevgeny. They’ve been looking after me, feeding me, gave me a place to stay. They’re my friends.” He’d said that last bit firmly, leaving no room for the doubt that flickered in Trevor’s eyes.

But it had vanished in a second and Trevor had leapt forward again and grabbed Mickey’s hand, pumping it fiercely. “Thank you, Mickey,” he said so solemnly. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to Ian. Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

Mickey quickly extracted his hand and only gave Trevor a nod. Yevgeny frowned at the stranger, entirely unhappy at how familiar he seemed with Ian. But Trevor didn’t let the less than friendly greeting bother him, and he tugged Ian to his side.

“Can we go home now?” he asked with a happy sigh.

Ian caught Mickey’s eye then, searching for something, anything that told him he could tell Trevor _no_. That it was okay just to see Trevor home safely and stay here with Mickey. But Mickey, troubled though he looked, cocked his head meaningfully and Ian remembered his promise from last night.

“Actually I have an idea first,”, he said. “I want to go on a date.”

Yev gasped and drew in a breathe to protest, but Mickey clamped down on his shoulder and gave him the look Yevy knew not to miss with. So he sulked and leaned back against his dad’s legs and glared at Trevor. He was getting in the way of Yevy’s happily every after, and he had to go.

*

Over 700 miles away, a man watched a story on the news about some moron in New York getting his ass stuck up a building. The reporter gushed about the emotional reunion between him and his fiancé and he spat on his filthy carpeted floor about fags and how the world woulda been better if a cross breeze had pushed the shit stain off the ledge. 

But then, in the background half hidden in the crowd watching two guys fucking _hugging_ , the man spotted a face he hadn’t seen in over five years but had cursed every day since.

Terry Milkovich was going to New York.

* * *

Ingrid wasn’t going to have a single looking glass left at the rate she kept breaking them. But what else was she supposed to do when everything unravelled so spectacularly around her. Trevor, that _idiot,_ had found Ian against all odds. They could be making their way back through the portal any minute and she hadn’t found the mugwort yesterday to close it. After Lip had corralled her and spoken about Monica and Ian, Ingrid hadn’t been able to keep from checking on her prisoner to reassure herself that Monica was still safely chained up in that tower.

There was nothing else for it. She couldn’t let Ian, Trevor or Karen get back through the portal. She’d have to slip through the worlds herself and kill them.

With that clarity came a deadly calm. Despite the carnage in her room, Ingrid made directly for a small hidden box in the wreckage, and pulled out a wrought silver dagger lined with emeralds and amethyst. She’d been saving it for the right time. She’d thought maybe it would have been a nice gesture to finish off Fiona or Lip with this particular knife, but know was as good a time as any. Tucking it into the folds of her robes she swept from her chambers.

She made it out of the castle without encountering anyone. She was moving with such a purpose and murderous intent on her face, that any servants or common people who saw her coming, quickly scurried out of the way until she’d passed.

It wasn’t until she’d reached the bridge to take her on the old path, that someone felt brave enough to get in her way.

“ _Move, you_ -!”

Carl stood before her, solid and unimpressed. “Where are you going?”

He never did address her by her title, or even an incorrect one like Lip did. Ingrid had put it down to childish insolence, but it was a habit he’d never grown out of.

“I’m going to find Ian,” she hissed the only thing she could think of that would make Carl bow down.

And Carl did step aside, but as she pushed passed him he quickly fell in line and easily kept pace with her.

“I’m coming with you,” he said before she could send him away. “I’m captain of our armies and head of law and order in the kingdom. Don’t be stupid.”

Ingrid seethed but didn’t break stride. She would have to allow it for now. Hopefully the glamour in the woods would throw him off if she could lose him before then, and if not, well. She’d brought that dagger for a reason.

Little did she know that Carl had no intention of letting her get away. He’d been posted on watch ever since Lip had come scrambling back from the tower, eyes wild and furious and he’d been snarling like Carl had never seen before. He ordered Carl to watch Ingrid every damn second and _“So help me Carl if you take your eyes off her once, I’ll throw you in the fucking dungeon!”_

Later, Debbie had come to him shaking and told him the awful truth. That their mother hadn't died. That Ingrid had imprisoned her in a tower. Lip and Fiona met with the council and planned to storm the tower and rescue the rightful Queen and his _mom_. They’d kept it silent from Frank. They’d all agreed they should wait until they’d seen her with their own eyes. Carl himself had been told that as soon as Ingrid was out the way and unable to interfere with the rescue, Carl should arrest her and bring her back for trial and sentencing.

He noticed Ingrid trying to shake him, so he pulled back and let her think she succeeded. But Lip had warned him about her magic and under his shirt he wore a special amulet which protected him from glamours. He followed Ingrid through the woods until she emerged into a clearing with a crumbling well. Without looking back she leapt into its mouth and Carl rushed after. He didn’t know where that portal let out, but like hell he was letting her get away.

* * *

Ian had dragged the “date” on for as long as he could. They’d all gone back to Mickey’s apartment to get cleaned up (Karen had pointedly and promptly shit on the back of Trevor’s shirt and Ian had scowled at her as she fluttered over the settle on Mickey’s shoulder this time, and fuck if his best friend didn’t know how to make her point). Ian had ushered Trevor out the door as soon as he could. The tensions was going to suffocate him if they spent another second there, he was sure of it.

Ian had taken Trevor to the park, to get ice cream, to the street to point out everything he’d learned; and all of it came with a little anecdote about his discoveries.

“It turned out they were just making a film. Have you seen films yet, Trevor? Mickey told me about them and we stayed up for hours just watching them. They’re amazing!”

“This was where Mickey found me. He took me for ice cream, but it’s not as nice as pop tarts.”

“Yev goes to school just down there, and Mickey walks him there before he goes to work. Did you know he draws pictures onto people’s _skin_. I mean, it’s gross but kinda really beautiful.”

Eventually, the afternoon sun started to go down, and Ian suggested they go for a nice meal. Trevor agreed readily. He’d listened patiently to Ian teaching him about this place, and whist he understood it a little more now, he had no desire to stay here any longer than necessary. They’d have dinner, the date would be over, and they could go home and live their happily ever after in Andalasia like they were supposed to.

Ian sipped on a beer whilst they waited for their food. Trevor had no idea what pizza was, but Ian had a gleam in his eye when he ordered it, so it must be good. But saying that, he’d tried a sip of Ian’s beer when it came and had nearly thrown up in his napkin. How he could drink it, Trevor had no idea. It smelled like sweat and made him want to gag. Ian would have to scrub his mouth out at least half a dozen times before the got back to Andalasia, because Trevor was determined they were getting married the second they were back through the portal before something could separate them again. And he was not kissing his husband for the first time with _that_ taste on his lips.

The pizza arrived and Ian took an eager bite, and Trevor was relieved that it was really quite good. He tucked in with his knife and fork whilst Ian just grabbed at the slices with his hands. Looked like they had some work to do on Ian’s manner before the wedding feast, too.

After a few minutes of silent eating, Ian cleared his throat. “Trevor? Can you tell me something about yourself?”

Trevor frowned. “Like what?”

Ian smiled “Like anything!”

“Why?”

Ian shoulders dropped. “It’s what you do, on dates,” he reached for an explanation. “Mickey told me about them. You ask each other questions, and find out what you like and don’t like – that kind of stuff.” He left off the bit about finding out if you’re compatible. Ian didn’t think Trevor would appreciate that.

But Trevor still didn’t understand. “Like a game?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ian surrender. “Yeah, sure. Like a game. What’s your favourite colour?”

“I – I don’t have one. I like them all.”

“Okay. Um, where’s you favourite place to go?”

Trevor perked up. “Oh that’s easy! The castle, to see you. Or the school, to help with the children.”

Ian beamed. “That’s great, Trevor. I didn’t know you did that.”

Trevor accepted the praise gallantly. “What about you? Where’s your favourite place?”

Ian forgot himself for a moment as a reel of places flashed across his memory, and none of them were dressed in the lurid technicolour of Andalasia. “I think, the tattoo parlour, maybe? Yes, definitely. Angie is such a flirt but she keeps Mickey on his toes and she’s great with Yevgeny. Enzo even started teaching me to make coffee, but Mickey shouted at him about unpaid labour or something like that. It’s a shame. I really like the smell.”

If Ian thought Trevor would be listening delightedly to his answer he was mistaken. He looked up and his fiancé looked bewildered.

“Your favourite place is here?” Trevor asked in disbelief. “In a place where they draw things on skin?”

Ian didn’t have an answer for him. Not one he wanted to hear anyway, because yes it was. Or at least, after Mickey’s apartment where he and Yevy yelled at each other from different rooms and Ian played messenger before they strained their throats; or when they made dinner together and Mickey kept batting Ian away from the hob whenever he got too near boiling and sizzling things; or those quiet moments when Mickey watched something on TV, Yev drew on his paper, and Ian happily watched over the two of them.

When he put it like that, maybe Ian did have an answer for Trevor.

“Yes,” he said, firm and sure. “It is.”

Trevor brow cleared and he looked at Ian steadily. Slowly, he extended a hand over the table and took one of Ian’s hands in his own. “Ian?” he asked carefully, like he was dreading the answer. Ian looked back. He felt like they were on the edge of a precipice. His belly fluttered with fear, his heart hammered in his chest waiting for the inevitable fall. Then Trevor asked the question. “Do you even want to come home? With me?”

* * *

Ingrid didn’t wait to get her bearings. She thrashed in that dark hole until something gave way. She clambered out into the darkness and bright lights stripped past her, beeping horns like warnings and she covered her eyes against the glare. People shouted, she heard someone scream, and one loud awful siren yanked her head out of her hands and two bright beams stared her down before –

The New Yorkers around Times Square screamed. The brakes on the bus screeched as the driver brought it to a violent, juddering halt. The passengers piled out and people ran into the road from the street, but no one saw any trace of the woman they had been convinced they’d just seen run over and killed by the bus. The driver, a curly haired woman called Sandra, was shaking and swearing that _“She was right there?! Where is she? Did she get out of the way?!”_

The only thing they found was a black gritty glitter that glistened in the light of torches and cell phones. The papers would report the mystery the next day, appealing for anyone with any information. Sandra would quit her job, and apply for a new apprenticeship at a tattoo parlour in a quieter end of town.

But not before she shrieked and rushed over to pull a young man struggling to climb out of a manhole surrounded by people.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!” She grabbed his hand and pulled him up with little difficulty. Carl looked at her, impressed and grateful.

“Are you alright, son?” she asked him, pressing and looking him over for any injuries.

Carl shook her off as kindly as he could, but there was no time to lose. He couldn’t see Ingrid anywhere. “Did you see a woman come through here?” He asked Sandra all in a rush. “It’s an emergency. She was wearing a black dress and cloak – she’s highly dangerous, you understand?”

Sandra gaped at him before she collected herself. “Well yeah, but – I hit her. I _thought_ I hit her with my bus but…”

She trailed off and shone her torch on the glitter covering the road. Then to her surprise, Carl threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

Mickey loved his son. He loved his son. _He loved his son_.

He repeated it like a mantra as Yevgeny followed him around the apartment complaining and cajoling and absolutely refusing to let Mickey forget about the fact that Ian was out on a date with his fiancé at that moment and shit, might have already started making his way back home.

“But _why_ is Ian with Trevor?”

“Because they’re engaged, Yev,” Mickey grumbled for the fifth time.

“But _why –“_

“I don’t know ‘why’! I don’t. if I did I’d tell you, alright?!"

It was a marker of the trust between them that Yevgeny wasn’t put off my Mickey’s snapping in the slightest.

“Daddy, Ian likes you! And you like him!”

“Who the fuck says?”

Yev rolled his eyes. “I saw you kissing.”

Mickey shut his eyes and bit his tongue. When he had a better grip of himself, he and Yev were going to have words about privacy and all kinds of shit.

“That was a mistake, Yev. And you better forget about it. Ian and Trevor are engaged, and they’re getting’ married, and Ian’s going _home_ , alright?”

But the whole time he’d been talking, Yev had been gathering his shoes and his wallet and phone, and trying to pull his coat off the rack.

Mickey loved his son. He _did_.

“Dad,” he proclaimed as he offered Mick his jacket. “You just gotta trust me. This is just like in the stories. You have to make a big gesture and chase after him and Ian will realise you’re who he wanted all along and then he’ll stay and –“ he gasped a great breath into his little lungs. “Then everything will be perfect.”

Mickey knelt so he could face his son, look him in the eye. He hated to do this, but Yev needed a heavy dose of reality if Mickey was going to keep his mind. “Yev,” he said gently. “Nothing and no one is perfect. That ain’t the world we live in. This isn’t a fairy tale and I sure as shit ain’t no prince. M’sorry. There isn’t a damn thing in the world you could ask for that I wouldn’t give you. But you can’t make people love each other. You just can’t.”

Yev looked at him, heartbroken, with one last question on his lips. “Don’t you love him, though? Even a little bit?”

Mickey’s heart jumped in his throat because truth was, he thought he could have. This was the real world and people didn’t fall in love in a matter of days, but connect? Yeah, they connected. Mickey hadn’t felt in the past 25 years what’s he’d felt in the last few days.

A knock at the door saved him from answering, either to lie to his son or get his hopes up all over again by admitting the truth. Yev started bouncing and yelling, excitedly. “It’s Ian! I bet you it’s Ian, dad! He left his date with Trevor and he came back!”

Mickey cursed his traitorous little heart as it jolted a little at the idea. But he stamped it down and hushed Yevgeny.

One hand on the latch, Mickey took a slow steadying breathe and opened the door.

_“Hey, faggot.”_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Descriptions of violence  
> Mentioned child abuse  
> Mentioned rape

When Carl had imagined reuniting with his brother, in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep with worry, not one of those scenarios had been an accident. But as Carl hunted the streets for Ian, he rounded a corner without looking where he was going and crashed into a solid chest. Then he heard a voice he’d missed like crazy.

“Carl? _Carl?!_ ”

The two brothers stared at each other, not quite trusting what they were seeing, before Ian swept Carl up in a bone crushing hug. Carl clutched him back, squeezing as tight as he could as Ian gibbered in his ear.

“Oh my god. How are you here?! Are you okay? When did you get here? Fuck, I _missed_ you.”

Carl was silent, drinking in the sound of Ian’s voice until they pulled apart. Carl saw Karen flying overhead and jerked his head at her. “’S’up, rat?”

Unlike Lip, he and Karen teased each other like it was a game. Karen squeaked happily and Carl couldn’t wait to get her back home so he could tease her for losing her voice.

Carl let out a deep, aggravated breath and turned to Ian. “The hell have you been, Ian?”

Ian smirked and looked around them. “New York, apparently.”

The smile threw Carl. He fully trusted Ian’s ability to protect himself, but he’d never expected his brother would be enjoying his disappearance. Carl gave him a good look over. “You’re alright.” It wasn’t a question.

Ian hooked an arm around his neck and led him they way he’d been heading when something occurred to Carl. “Hey, have either of you seen Trevor? None of us have seen him for days back home.”

Ian stiffened. “Yeah,” he said lowly. “He’s here. I think he’s heading back soon.”

Carl was excellent at cutting through the bullshit. “Why’s he not hovering around you like flies round shit?”

Karen squeaked above them and Ian shoved him. But then he got this soft look on his face that Carl had never seen before. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

* * *

“You really like this guy, huh?”

Carl interrupted Ian’s fifth Mickey tale. Karen had given up a while ago and flitted off in search of food as Carl listened to his brother spin stories about a man with a heart full of kindness and a mouth full of attitude; hands that had guided and protected Ian but could throw a guy around (and if Ian thought he was fooling anybody hiding that leer, he was delusional). It hadn’t taken long for Carl to put two and two together.

Ian sighed into the night sky but didn’t fight it. He was done fighting it. “Yeah. I really do. He just. Fuck, it just makes sense here, Carl. And he’s like, the main part of that.”

“Shit,” Carl laughed. “Lip’s going to be furious you’re not coming back.”

If Ian ever heard anyone call Carl dumb again, he was going to punch them in the throat. Because that was the nail on the head right there. When he’d walked out of that restaurant, he hadn’t just left Trevor behind. He’d dropped any pretences of going back to Andalasia.

That is, if Mickey would let if stay. If he’d have him.

With a new purpose to his step, Ian urged them on to Mickey’s place. He practically skipped out of that elevator and tripped down the corridor to Mickey’s apartment with Carl’s chuckles echoing behind him.

But that happy blossoming bubble growing inside him, burst as a child’s voice howled out, painful and terrified.

Ian barrelled through a broken apartment door and his knees nearly gave out at the sight before him.

The coffee table normally buried under Yev’s drawings was broken in splinters and jagged chunks across the floor. Glass shards were strewn a sharp between the rooms. Rusted red dots led a horrid trail to Ian’s feet

Yevgeny stood and wailed.

His throat sounded raw and hurting. His face was smeared with snot and tears. When he reached out to Ian, his hands were spotted with little cuts and there was a dark bruise clouding his delicate neck.

Vomit burned in Ian’s throat as he swept Yevgeny up and held him close.

“Hush, hush, hush,” he tried to soothe him as Carl checked the apartment. “Oh god, Yevgeny. You scared me to death. Are you okay?”

Yev sobbed cry after heart breaking cry into Ian’s neck. 

“No one’s here,” Carl confirmed as he returned.

“Yev? Yev, I need you.” Ian said desperately. “I need your help, okay?”

He felt a nod against is throat.

“Where did your dad go?”

Yev trembled violently and wrapped his arms tighter around Ian’s neck. All Ian could see where curls and shaking shoulders. But bravely Yevgeny answered.

“The man took him.”

Ian felt like he was spiralling – like he was falling through that portal all over again.

“What man Yevy?” he asked in a rush. “I don’t understand. Who?!”

Carl put a steadying hand on Ian’s back and took charge. _This_ was what Carl was good at.

“Yevgeny,” he said low but firm and with absolute calm. “My name’s Carl. I’m Ian’s brother.”

One blue eye stared out through the curls. “We’re gonna find your dad, but we need your help. You need to tell us what happened.”

Yev pulled his face out of Ian’s neck. “He knocked on the door,” he started in a small voice. “Daddy tried to close it before he could get in but the man broke it. He kept hitting daddy!” Yevy burst into fresh tears. “I tried to help, I promise! I grabbed daddy’s leg but the man kicked me and I fell down and I got glass on my hands.” Yevy held his wounds up for inspection. “I wasn’t strong enough!”

Ian run a soothing hand up Yevgeny’s back and Carl cupped his little head.

“You’re plenty strong,” Carl swore. “And this isn’t your fault. You did great. Did they go out the front door?”

Yev nodded. “They went that way.”

He pointed the opposite way to the elevator and Ian frowned. They left the apartment and sure enough, the same red, drip, drip, drip, led the way. Ian couldn’t help but notice all the apartment doors they passed were ominously silent and Ian scowled and cursed at them each in turn as they ran past.

The drips stopped at a doorway which Carl shoved open. Stairs led down, down, down to the belly of the building, and their trail picked up again. It looked more harsh now against the white paint and Ian tucked Yev’s head in closer to his shoulder. They followed the blood to a door which had been propped open with a brick and emerged into an empty alley way.

Carl noted that the right was a dead end so they went left and spilled out onto the street, where there was absolutely no sign of Mickey.

“Ian Gallagher, you have some damn nerve!”

They spun towards the voice and Tony Markovich marched towards them with a frantic Trevor behind him trying to calm him down.

Ian had never felt so relieved in all his life. “Tony! Thank _god!_ ”

He sprinted towards the other man, and Tony finally noticed the panic on his face and a clearly distressed Yevgeny in his arms.

“Y-you have to help!” Ian begged. “Mickey’s gone. I don’t – we don’t know where but someone came, and, and they attacked him and they hit Yev, and there’s _blood_ , and –“

Trevor was by his side in a second, full of sympathy and reassurances but Ian barely heard a thing. He was grateful, but they needed help or Mickey would – Mickey would –

“Ian.” Tony gripped the arm that wasn’t clutching Yevgeny. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Ian told him the very limited details they knew, including everything that Yev had told them, praying it would be enough for Tony to do _something_.

“Yev,” Tony asked frowning. His voice was tense. “This older man – you said he called your dad a name. Do you remember what it was?”

Yev nodded.

“Can you tell me?”

“Daddy said not to say it. Not ever. It’s a bad word.”

Tony gave him a patient smile. “I think just this once, he’ll understand. Besides, I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

Yev whispered as quietly as he could. “He called him a – a _facket_.”

Ian frowned. “What’s a facket?”

But Tony ignored him as he pulled out his phone and tapped a few things before turning it round to Yevgeny. “I need you to look at this picture very carefully, Yev. It’s important you tell me the absolute truth here. Is this the man you saw?”

Ian looked at the screen with Yev. He saw a man with an ugly grimace on his leathery face. His stubble was grey his hair wiry curls cropped close to his head. His eyes were blue and cold.

“Yeah!” Yev said decisively. “That’s him!”

Tony closed his eyes and the colour drained from his face. All the hopes Ian had steadily been building up were dashed against that expression.

“Who is he?” he asked Tony.

“Terry Milkovich. He’s Mickey’s dad.”

* * *

Tony had burst into action then, with the rest of them trailing after him like ducklings. Particularly annoying, demanding, ducklings. He put a BOLO out for Terry Milkovich and any cars registered to the Milkovich family. They didn’t have many ties here in New York, so the odds of one of their vehicles being in the city the same time Mickey gets snatched were slim to none.

He jogged back to his patrol car. The sooner he got on the streets and looked for Mickey the better, and he knew a couple of Terry’s old buddies haunts. They were all dead or incarcerated now, but their kids had mostly taken over in their absence. No great friends of Terry, but connected enough that they might give him a hand if he asked for it and promised them favours in return.

Except when Terry closed his car door, his passenger seat was filled by Ian Gallagher, and he had two full grown men dressed straight outta fantasy film, and a six year old boy in his backseat.

“No.”

Ian jutted out his chin. “Yes.”

“No, no, _no._ This is not a negotiation. Get out of my car and get somewhere safe. Call the precinct and let them know where you are and I’ll let _you_ know as soon as we have anything.”

But Ian wasn’t moved in the slightest. “Tony, that’s not happening. I’m coming with you. Carl and Trevor are coming with you. Deal with it.”

Trevor nodded fervently and said, “Yes, please.” Carl smirked and Tony kinda hated the family resemblance at that moment.

So he played his trump card. “And Yevgeny. Is he coming too?”

Despite Yevgeny promising all out hell if he wasn’t allowed to go, Tony saw Ian mull it over. They couldn’t and they wouldn’t take a kid into a dangerous situation. Not only was it monumentally reckless, but Mickey would hang them all from the rafters and dance while they choked to death.

Eventually Ian cleared his throat. “I know a place.”

* * *

Angie nearly dropped her coffee when Yevgeny and Ian came bursting into the tattoo parlour. Two other strange men followed and a pissed off Officer Markovich brought up the rear muttering into his radio.

“The fuck, Ian?” Angie welcomed them. “Where’s the fire?”

“Angie!” Ian ran to the desk and all but shoved Yevgeny into her arms. “Can you watch Yev for a while. It’s an emergency. We have to go –“

Angie grabbed Ian’s wrist before he could run out the door. “Hold up a damn second,” she scolded him. “What’s going on? Where’s Mickey?”

Yev began to sniffle and Ian looked like he’d struck her. “He’s – we don’t know where he is. But we’re going to go find him, I promise.”

Angie was too stunned to stop Ian this time, and when Yevgeny noticed they were leaving without him, he gave her a hell of a fight trying to keep him still.

“I wanna come too! Don’t go!”

To everyone’s surprise it was Trevor who stepped up. He placed his hands down palms up either side of Yev as he sat on the desk.

“I don’t know your dad,” Trevor said. “But any dad wouldn’t want his child in danger. I bet, no matter where he is, all he’s thinking about is you. And hoping that you’re safe. Does that sound like him?”

Yev nodded reluctantly.

“So the best thing you can do is do your dad’s job for him, just for a little while, and keep yourself safe whilst we go find him. And I promise, the second we do, we’ll bring him right back here. Can you do that for us, Yevgeny?”

Yev stopped kicking at Angie and slumped into her arms instead. The battle won, Trevor, Ian, Carl and Tony left the parlour and piled back into Tony’s car. Just as he started the engine, Tony’s radio crackled to life.

_Officer Markovich, this is dispatch._

“10-5, dispatch,” Tony answered.

_We have that 10-20 you asked for. Stand by._

Tony drummed his fingers on the mouthpiece of his personal radio. It was a tense few moments and he could feel three pairs of eyes burning into his head from all angles.

_There’s an abandoned storage container on South Street. Registered to a Masha Michalko. Deceased wife of the suspect. Sending co-ordinates now._

“Copy that, dispatch. Over.”

“Is that where he is,” Ian asked tentatively.

Tony sighed. “It’s a start.”

* * *

In real life, punches didn’t sound like the did in the movies. All that crunching and that satisfying _thwack_ and the sound of the other guy as he goes down – it was all bullshit.

It sounded exactly like what it was. The smacking of skin on skin. Dull, muffled, heavy. Any air Mickey had in him had been beaten out a while ago, so he barely made a noise as his old man laid into him.

But Mickey considered himself lucky in a way. He hadn’t seen the guy in nearly six years. For Terry Milkovich, who was creeping well past middle aged, six years spent as a criminal in South Side may as well have been sixteen. The years hadn’t been kind to him. Mickey was surprised by how quickly tired, and discovered his pops had discovered a whole new appreciation for trash talk as he gave his old arms a break. It was funny, since Mickey’s smart mouth had gotten him a fat lip more times than anything other of his perceived sins.

“You thought you were so smart,” Terry sneered at his son, panting. “Disappearing in the middle of the night while I was in the can, without a trace? Did you think I wouldn’t find you? Let me tell you something, _Mikhailo_ – “ he grabbed Mickey’s hair and yanked his head back. “I don’t care if it took me to my death bed, I was always gonna find ya, and I was always gonna get you back. People don’t walk away from Terry Milkovich.”

Mickey chuckled and some blood dribbled down his chin. “Stop, I get. You missed me. Pops, most people send a postcard or somethin’ –“

 _Fuck_. Mickey had forgotten about Terry’s uppercut. His head felt heavy and pain zipped along his jaw.

“Yuck it up, chuckles,” Terry growled. “Doesn’t take a brave man to make fun when he knows he’s about to get a bullet in his head. ‘Cuz what does he have to lose? Nah, we’ll see how funny you are when I drag you and that grandson of mine back to Chicago where you belong.”

Mickey swallowed something thick. Blood, phlegm, he didn’t fuckin’ know at this point, and something must have showed in his face because Terry grinned victoriously.

“You’re a lost fuckin’ cause. I’ve learned my lesson there, don’t you worry. But Yevgeny? He’s young. He can still be moulded. Remember how I used to mould you?”

Yeah. In plaster casts and dirty band-aids and crutches. Mickey spat on Terry’s shoes.

“Fuck you.”

Terry spat in his face. It landed somewhere by his ear.

A tattered strip of canvas was rolled up in the floor. It was pretty small, and tied close by twine string. Terry cut ‘em loose and the canvas unrolled to reveal gleaming points and Mickey thought that _maybe_ , six years was enough for his dad to get a life. But apparently not. Apparently he’d spent the whole time dreaming up this reunion, and had a go back of fuckin’ knives ready to go at a moment’s notice. Fuckin’ ay.

As Terry indulged in his new found love of theatrics, pulling each knife out and fingering it in turn, Mickey spoke.

“Did you know,” he swallowed again. “That Yevgeny loves fairy tales?”

Terry looked disgusted. “You turning my grandson into a fag too? Don’t you worry kid, I’ll have that outta him in a jiffy.”

“He likes to write ‘em and stuff,” Mickey talked over him. “Let me tell you one. Y’see, once upon a time, there as a fat, old, son of a bitch, right? And this fat, old, son of a bitch like the kiddies. He found a girl in – let’s call it Bukraine. She was fourteen years old, and the fat old, son of a bitch looked at her and said, _that’s my wife!”_

“Keep talking, Mickey, and see what you get.”

“So the wife, the fourteen year old, gives him six kids over the years. The youngest, was a little girl named _Mandy_.” Mickey managed to pick his head up and stared Terry in the eyes. He’d stopped feeling up the knives but Mickey clocked the way his fists had started to shake in anger.

“Mandy was the apple of the fat, old, son of a bitch’s eye. She looked just like her ma’, which was nice since the mom died a little while after she was born. And when Mandy got just old enough – probably when she was fourteen – the fat, old, son of a _bitch_ , thought she’d be a pretty good replacement for his little wife –“

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth or I’ll cut it. Cheek to cheek, you see if I don’t.”

“But one day, Mandy had enough. She didn’t want the fat, old, son of a bitch touching her anymore like a pervert. So she packed up some stuff – just enough to last her a few days until she got where she was going. She bought a bus ticket out of town, and she wrote two letters. One letter was for the fat, old, son of a bitch. Telling him she’d killed herself because she couldn’t take another fuckin’ second living with him. But the second?” Mickey laughed as Terry stared transfixed. “The other was to her brother. She told him the truth. She told him _everything_. Not where she was going, but everything the fat, old, son of a bitch had done to her over the years.”

Terry was on him again, a knife pressed against Mickey’s throat and growling. “You don’t know _anything._ ”

“So the brother started plotting. How could he make the fat, old son of a bitch pay for what he’d done to his sister? But it turned out, he didn’t need to. Because one by one, all his kids left him. His two oldest boys, his _warriors_ ,” Mickey spat the name Terry reserved for Joey and Jamie. “They were doing life in prison after he’d stitched them up, and if they were ever locked up together, they were going to kill him. Then his middle sons left and went straight. Legit jobs, paid their taxes – the whole enchilada. They cut the fat, old son of a bitch out their lives. And the last son –“

Terry pressed harder and Mickey felt it break the skin. But fuck it, if he was going to die here, he was going to take all of Terry’s illusions with him.

“The last son was a fuckin’ _fag._ And nothing Terry ever did to fix him worked. In the middle of the night, that fag took his son and blew the last piece of that fat, old, son of a bitch’s legacy to _shit_. He left him with nothing. He was _nobody_. No one was scared of him anymore. He had no one to do his dirty work that he was too scared to do himself, and he’d fuckin’ die with no one to remember him. Like piss down the fuckin’ drain.”

Silence swallowed the room. Mickey felt a calmness settle over him. He recognised the coldness in Terry’s eyes. He’d seen it plenty of times right before Terry shot someone, or knifed them, or beat them to death. 

But he’d said his piece. Let Terry go back to Chicago knowing the piece of shit he really was. So long as Yevgeny was safe, nothing else mattered. Mandy would look after him, wherever she was.

Terry blew out a breath. Mickey did too, and was pretty sure he’d just breathed his last.

* * *

The door to the storage container was ajar when they got there. Tony took the lead and made Ian, Carl, and Trevor wait one unit over _(“For the love of god, stay there.”)_ as he checked it out. The voice inside was low. Tony couldn’t make out what is was saying. But as he peered inside he saw the back of Terry Milkovich towering over someone tied to a chair, and Tony would bet his whole damn career that it was Mickey. Anyone else and they would have been dead by now – probably killed right in their apartment. But the hate Terry held for Mickey was on a whole new level, and Tony wasn’t surprised he’d wanted to drag this out.

For once, Terry’s sick way of thinking worked in Tony’s favour.

Carefully, keeping his balance so he didn’t shift on the gravel outside and make a noise, he took his gun out of is holster. He’d called for backup when he’d spotted a stolen car in the lot, but he couldn’t hear sirens and wasn’t about to let Mickey get hurt waiting around for them. He clicked off the safety. Slowly, he grabbed the lip of one of the metal doors, waiting.

The chatter in the container fell silent and in Tony’s experience, that never boded well.

“Terry Milkovich! This is the NYPD! Come out with your hands up!”

He threw the door open and trained his gun on Terry. He’d expected a shoot out immediately, so kept crouched on the ground, but Terry was holding a knife – a turn up for the books ordinarily, but he quickly stood behind Mickey, dragged him to his feet and off the chair, and used him as a human shield.

“Nice try, Markovich,” Terry grinned nastily. “But you shoot me, I cut his throat on reflex. And we both know you ain’t gonna do that.”

“Yev?” Mickey choked against the knife.

A voice piped up behind Tony and he felt bodies step up behind him.

“He’s fine, Mick,” Ian said. “He’s in a safe place.”

Mickey’s shoulders sagged in the barest second of relief, before Terry’s knife cut into him and jerked him right back up.

“This your back up, Markovich?” Terry looked at them mockingly.

“That’s right,” Carl said. “A guy like you must know that four on one’s just a bad idea. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop the knife.”

Terry cackled his way into a hacking cough and hocked up onto the floor behind Mickey.

“That’s cute kid, except I only see one gun pointed at me. So I’m thinking good ol’ Tony Markovich here is the only one packin’. Right?”

Ian stepped forward. He saw a black bar propped in the corner and it was high time he armed himself. But when he moved, quick as a flick, Terry tossed the knife into his other hand and pointed it at Ian as he kept Mickey in a choke hold with his other forearm. Tony yelled and took a step forward and Terry swung the knife on him. And it clicked in Ian as he caught Mickey’s gaze over Terry’s arm wrapped around his throat – Terry couldn’t attack all of them.

Mickey kicked out the same time as Ian dove for the bar. It was solid and heavy, with a sharp hook at one end. _Perfect_.

Carl had read Ian like a book. He’d always been able to, and they’d run so many drills together it was like another language. He looped around and approached Terry from the other side. It meant he got a bit closer than he’d like to Terry’s knife, but if they were quick, Carl was sure he could disarm him.

“Get fuckin’ back –“

Mickey thrashed in earnest. “Fuck you, y’piece of shit!”

“Put the knife _down_ , Terry!”

“Tony be careful!”

“I will shoot you, goddamnit!”

Mickey finally broke from Terry’s grip, he got just enough room to turn around and face his dad, and brought his knee up and his forehead down in one swift move.

Mickey felt Terry’s nose burst under his skull, before he bent doubled clutching at his groin. Mickey fell to the floor, blood loss and a hard hit to his head finally catching up with him, but Ian and Carl leapt forward in perfect harmony. Carl dove for the knife and tried to twist it from Terry’s wrist but he still put up a fight. They fought for it until Ian rained hell over Terry's back with the crowbar.

“Hit his wrist!” Carl yelled.

Ian caught it with the sharp end of the crowbar and Terry released the knife with a hiss. Carl rolled away, and gentle hands helped Mickey stand up. He flinched on instinct, but saw Trevor’s curly hair and his concerned brown eyes as he tried to guide him out of harm’s way. But like hell he was leaving Ian to go toe to toe with Terry. He lumbered forward as Terry got himself upright. Ian brandished the crowbar and Mickey yelled out to warn him, but then Terry was grappling for the crowbar.

Mickey heard Tony shouting something but he couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. Terry shoved at Ian and he collided with Mickey and they went sprawling to the floor, when Carl jumped on Terry’s back.

“Will you all stop moving so I can shoot him!”

Terry caught hold of Carl’s neck and tossed him off. Carl smacked hard against the metal walls and he fell to land on his hands and a pierced the air.

_“Carl!”_

Ian tried to scramble over to him, but Terry threw the crowbar and Ian had to duck and dive out of the way to avoid it careening into his head.

“You’re fucking dead.” Terry ripped a gun out from the back of his jeans and aimed it between Ian’s eyes.

Mickey gave a garbled yell. Carl tried to hobble to his feet. Trevor cried out –

_BANG._

* * *

When Mickey was a baby, Terry had been pleased to have another son – _more_ proof of his virility. But it hadn’t extended much beyond that. The novelty had worn off by his fifth. Well, by his second really, but whatever.

But then Mickey had started to grow up and show his brains, Terry had proudly shown off _his_ kid, who caught the Sinaloa Cartel trying to rip the Milkoviches off. When he and his buddies got drunk, they got a real kick out of goading Mickey and makin’ him run his smart mouth, tearing down grown men three times his size and four times his age with a few well placed barbs.

In those early years, Terry had never thought it’d come to a clean shot in a shipping container.

But as he laid on his back and stared at the metal ceiling, he could tell it had been clean. His own gun fell from his hands, and there were indistinct yells and scrambling going on around him. Someone was dragging something away – _Mickey_ , his brain supplied helpfully.

“You’re never going to see that man again.” Terry must have said he name out loud, because Tony Markovich stood over him, smoking gun pointed at him, and Terry could feel the aim nestle perfectly between his brows. He’d underestimated the fucker. He was a crack shot.

Sirens flooded the area and more bodies piled into the container. A couple of paramedics descended on him and he was cuffed to a stretcher, and a hand reached out to stop him from being hauled into the back of an ambulance.

Mickey stood, barely, next to him. His face was covered in blood. Nicks led a dotted line around his neck. But he _stood_. He gazed down at Terry with nothing in his eyes – no fear, no anger, nothing. And Terry felt the full weight of his failure. He’d failed as a father, creating this fucking thing that thought it could look down on him. And he’d failed to put it right and put him down.

Terry sneered and looked away, and Mickey turned his back and walked away.

Ian was by his side in an instant. He took his weight and dragged him over to another ambulance, and manhandled and forced him to submit to the paramedics.

“Don’t you fuckin’ do that Mickey. You don’t get to do that,” Ian murmured into his ear. “I thought you were going to die, so you’ll damn well make sure you don’t.”

Mickey chuckled wetly. “M’fine.” But he obeyed all the same.

Tony joined them as the paramedics checked Mickey over for a concussion. “How’s he doing?”

“I’m right fuckin’ here.”

Ian shushed him.

“Mild concussion,” said one of the paramedics. "He needs to stay in the hospital overnight.”

Mickey tried to stand up. “I can’t. Yevgeny –“

“Is staying with Angie,” Ian said pointedly.

Tony smiled supportive. “I gave her a call. The little guy’s desperate to see you, but he knows you’re okay.”

Mickey looked at him, the blood making his blue eyes stand out brighter. Tony had always found them a little difficult to look at.

“Thanks, Tony. For – for everything.”

Tony shook his head. “Oh, don’t thank me yet. You’re still gonna need to give your statement –“ Mickey groaned at that – “But uh,” Tony huffed. “I know we’ve had our differences, but you don’t deserve any of what that bastard put you through. Not then and not now. You wanna thank me, you take care of yourself, alright?”

Mickey frowned. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. New York’s not really working out for me. Think I might head back to Chicago – or maybe somewhere new. Who knows?”

“Could use guys like you in the army,” Carl’s voice piped up behind them. He had a bright white bandage wrapped around his wrist. “You’re a fast thinker, decisive. We need guys like you in Andalasia.”

“Anda-where?”

_“Don’t fucking ask!”_

“Mickey!”

A warmth spread up Tony’s side and Trevor leaned into him. “Andalasia. It’s home. And I would love to show it to you. If you’re up for a little adventure, that is.”

Adventure. Tony liked the sound of that.

Trevor led Tony away and Carl wasted no time embracing his brother.

“You’re leaving already?” Ian asked.

Carl hummed. “Yeah. We’ve no idea if Ingrid’s portal is a permanent thing, or has some kinda time limit. And since she’s gone, I don’t really wanna take any chances – _oh!_ Ian you’ll never guess what.”

And so, in one evening, Ian had reunited with and lost a fiancé, reunited with and said goodbye to a brother, rescued a lover, and discovered the mother he thought was dead as very much alive. If he burst into tears, well, no one could blame him. It had been a hell of a day.

Carl shook Mickey’s hand carefully as Ian sobbed into his other shoulder. “I can’t say it’s been fun to meet you,” he said wryly. “But maybe next time. Look after my brother, or there won’t be enough portals in all the worlds for you to hide in.”

Mickey sighed. “I don’t know what the fuck any of that means, but sure. Of course I will.”

With a final kiss to Ian’s head, Carl ran after Trevor and Tony, and Ian called after him, “Don’t forget Karen!”

Whilst Ian collected himself, Mickey let his head rest on top of Ian’s.

“So what now?” Ian asked playing with the hem of Mickey’s shirt.

Mickey breathed in his smell, or as best he could through the drying blood. He followed Carl’s kiss with one of his own, right on Ian’s crown. “We go home.”

Ian’s smile was resounding. “Yeah?”

Mickey’s white teeth gleamed against the red smeared around his mouth. “Yeah.”

The leaned in slowly, lips only a breath apart ready to seal their promises with a kiss.

“Boy!” A hand pulled Mickey back. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, but your ass is going to lay down in that stretcher and you’re going to the hospital. And you!” The lady paramedic turned to Ian. “Behave your damn self!”

Mickey cackled and Ian followed him into the ambulance with a smile.

* * *

When Mickey and Ian turned up on Angie’s doorstep the next day, Yevgeny threw himself at Mickey and no kind of cajoling would get him to let go. He clung to Mickey like he would disappear if he didn’t. In fact, it wasn’t until they had left and were heading back home, and Mickey asked how Yev would feel if Ian came to live with them, that he launched his little body at the redhead, instead.

Meanwhile in Andalasia, the army had stormed the tower and freed Queen Monica from her prison. When Frank saw her again, he’d fallen to his knees and kissed her feet and they’d spent the whole night weeping and sleeping on the floor.

Frank had abdicated immediately, taking Monica away to recover from her ordeal. He decreed that Fiona and Lip would rule Andalasia together as brother and sister, and the kingdom couldn’t have picked two better rulers.

Together, they healed the fields and repopulated the rivers and paid off their debts. Lip, and Karen, he grudgingly admitted, had discovered that guano was an _excellent_ fertiliser. The freshly planted seed she’d dropped on had grown into a strong and healthy sapling, and the bats of the realm were doing their duty to end starvation in Andalasia.

Tony took to life there very well, and although it did take them longer than a week, he and Trevor got married eventually, and Trevor was delighted that Tony had an amazing singing voice.

As for Mickey and Ian, life was never a fairy tale. They argued and fought and said the wrong things all the time. Mickey was overprotective and paranoid about everything for weeks after the incident with Terry, whilst Ian still had a knack for getting into all kinds of trouble. But Ian relished every single feeling that maddening, beautiful man evoked in him. Mickey couldn’t dance and he was a worse singer, but Ian fell in love every time Mickey cursed at him and teased Yevgeny. Prince Charming’s weren’t for him. He’d take a South Side slugger with bloody knuckles and a heart of gold any day of the week.

“You gangly motherfucker! Did you finish the pop tarts _again_? I’m gonna kick your narrow ass, Ian!”

Ian sighed dreamily. This fuckin’ guy.


End file.
